


The Smallest Piece of Truth

by CapnShellhead



Category: Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, DC Extended Universe, DCU
Genre: AU, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, Enemies to Lovers, Grief/Mourning, Hand Jobs, Hate Sex, Hurt/Comfort, Kryptonite, M/M, Manipulation, Pining, Public Sex, Research, Rimming, Semi-Public Sex, Serious Injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-06 22:10:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 49,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16841389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CapnShellhead/pseuds/CapnShellhead
Summary: When Clark Kent encountered Bruce Wayne at Lex Luthor's party, he was sure he'd found the infamous Bat of Gotham. In his quest to take Bruce down, Clark found a lot more than he bargained for.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, this monster of a fic came out of nowhere. Honestly, I didn't set out to write more Superbat. I certainly didn't set out to write an entire AU of Batman v. Superman, but it happened. I worked in quite a bit of DCU Comics verse things. I really wanted Dick there. And Alfred to meet Clark since he was surprisingly fond of him in the film (at least, I thought so). It just grew and grew into this huge piece that topped out at 50k words. That's crazy!
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy it! This is my first real foray into Superbat fics because the previous fics have just been PWPs. 
> 
> Enjoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note: there was a wonky error on my part where a big chunk of this was missing (a scene in an office). It’s back now!

Clark Kent had struggled with control all of his life.

He was three years old when a temper tantrum shattered the banister on the Kents' stairwell. Seven when he tripped and dented the fender on Pa’s truck. Twelve when playing catch nearly took out a support beam on the barn. His parents did their best to drill in the necessity of hiding his abilities and it had left him rather reserved. Always having to rein in his strength, his keen senses and a myriad of other abilities, some of which were still developing… it had made it difficult for him to express himself. It made it harder to know when to let go. So used to secrecy, playing it safe and sensible: it took a lot to make Clark lose his temper.

But this guy had a way about him.

Amidst the sounds of laughter and quiet conversation, the clinking of glasses and the click of heels, Clark had heard the tinny sound of a comms system. He’d heard the man’s accent and knew enough to differentiate between the typical upstate New York accent and place it firmly in Gotham. The voice in the man’s ear sounded British, the terms used leading Clark to believe he was some sort of British intelligence.

However, the man weaving determinedly through the crowd was the right built, the right size and shape to be the masked vigilante Clark had been chasing. The infamous “Bat” of Gotham. The monster playing judge, jury and executioner.

Clark followed him, touching his arm and striking up a conversation. Lois had told him he’d never be known for his subtlety. Within a few seconds of speaking to this man, it became clear he didn’t have a high opinion of Superman. Clark was taken aback for a moment before he turned the conversation back on the shadow haunting Gotham.

Clark picked at him, his words rather pointed. When he mentioned good people living in fear, there was a moment, just a _glimmer_ of annoyance in the man’s eyes. The slight twinge of disgust before he willed it away. It was low hanging fruit; an attempt to get a rise out of Bruce but he didn’t take the bait. Instead, he played it cool, a smooth, congenial smile in place.

Luthor came over and Bruce excused himself. But Clark wasn’t done.

He’d barely scratched the surface of this story. He wanted to expose him.

Politely slipping away, Clark followed Bruce, several paces behind. Bruce moved quickly, his broad shoulders confident and strong. He nodded to a few guests, passing the kitchens as his shoes sounded quietly on the tile floor. Clark swallowed, careful not to get too close, his shoes sounding louder on the floor. Bruce veered down a small hallway and Clark hung back, watching as he entered a server room of some sort.

Bruce reached for something hidden behind a console before returning empty handed and cursing. Ducking his head, Clark waved at a passing waiter, all the while listening.

There was a quiet curse as Bruce muttered that “it” was gone. Then a quiet beep and a gruff, “I know you’re there.”

Stiffening, Clark’s face warmed as he heard the sound of expensive shoes moving quickly across the floor. The door to the server room opened and Clark found himself dragged backwards. Or rather, he _let_ himself be dragged backwards. Hands gripped his shirt as Bruce shoved him up against a nearby wall with surprising strength, his eyes keen and observing. A piercing brown that sent shivers down Clark’s spine.

Leaning in close, Bruce cut to the point. “You followed me here.”

“So I did,” Clark replied simply, watching Bruce take him in quietly. There was something about the look in his eye… like he was looking through him, not at him. “What are you doing, Mr. Wayne?”

This close, Clark was able to make out every line of color in Bruce’s eyes, the woodsy scent of his cologne. Nice, expensive, something Clark could never even dream to afford. Unattainable.

“I got lost. I don’t see how that concerns you.” His breathing was quiet, calm. Holding Clark up as though he could do this all day. Clark swallowed, a flash of heat coursing through him.

His hand tightened on Clark’s shirt and Clark’s mouth quirked. “You’re awfully strong.”

“I work out.”

“A lot of heavy lifting in your line of work?” Clark asked innocently, watching Bruce’s eyes narrow in response. He cocked his head to the side. “I was under the impression you spent your days in board meetings. Or is it your extracurriculars that require enough strength to lift a fully-grown man?”

Bruce’s mouth twisted into some semblance of a smile, although it wasn’t very reassuring. Clark got the sense it wasn’t meant to be. “Is there something you want to ask me, Mr. Kent?”

Clark started to respond when he heard the distant click of heels. He ignored it. “I get the feeling you wouldn’t want Mr. Luthor to be aware of your presence here. I think it’d be in your best interests to answer my questions.”

A beat.

A tick in Bruce’s heart rate, a sharp glint in his eye. “Is that a threat?”

Clark swallowed, holding Bruce’s gaze before his head whipped to the side.

Luthor’s assistant was quickly approaching. Bruce cursed, a strong hand palming Clark’s throat as Bruce crushed their mouths together. His lips were soft yet forceful, his mouth hot and demanding as Clark opened for him in surprise. Heat coiled in his center, spreading outward as Bruce cupped the back of his head and cushioned it from the wall behind him. Rising up, he nosed Clark’s head backward, his tongue slick and sly as it dipped into Clark’s mouth with ease. Lost in the gentle slide, Clark gave up control, rested his head in Bruce’s palm, letting him command.

Heart pounding, Clark felt the rest of the party fall away. He’d never been kissed like this before. It felt more like giving himself up to be devoured, Bruce’s hands holding him in place.

Finally, Bruce pulled away, watching as Clark opened his eyes dazedly. A roaring in his ears as he watched Bruce turn to the empty hallways with a satisfied nod.

At Clark’s stare, he muttered, “Public displays of affection make others uncomfortable.” He licked his lips, a brushfire burning down Clark’s spine as Bruce studied him with intrigue. “You enjoyed that.”

Even as his cheeks warmed, Clark felt his annoyance return. “I did not. _You_ kissed _me_.” His lips still tingled and he could still feel the ghost of Bruce’s hand on his throat.

“I’m not denying that. You still enjoyed it.” Stepping back, Bruce cast a glance at the wall of servers before moving towards the door. “Enjoy the rest of your night, Mr. Kent.”

Sighing, Clark straightened his clothes as Bruce added, “You’d do well to stop your investigation into the Bat. It could get messy.”

+

Clark wasn’t the best reporter at the Daily Planet.

That title very solidly belonged to Lois Lane and Clark was proud of that. After their break up, she’d remained a big part of his life and he couldn’t imagine his life without her. Even as busy as she was chasing stories around the world, she still made time to help teach Clark some tricks of the trade. How to get a source to trust him, how to talk to less than reluctant witnesses, and how to do simple recon work. Clark had all the tools he needed to research and prove his theory.

Bruce Wayne was a persona.

The more Clark researched, the more confident he became that he was simply finding things the billionaire wanted found. Were Clark a TMZ reporter, he’d have a fount of blurry photos of Bruce stumbling out of parties with women on his arm, attending movie premieres and night clubs. There were even some extremely graphic accounts from former romantic partners detailing “One Night with Bruce Wayne.” Clark had no trouble finding “dirt”.

However, he found more interest in the things that were harder to find.

In 1999, a small-time paper in Connecticut caught Alfred Pennyworth toting several shopping bags from the Grant Brothers Tailor Shop. Nothing worth noting except that the account from the shop owner, later recanted, mentioned that the older man had come in search of boys’ clothes. Much too small to fit Mr. Wayne and large enough that they clearly weren’t clothing a newborn. When approached for comment, Wayne released a statement that he was donating clothes to a charity.

If true, why did the shop owner recant?

Sometime after, witnesses reported Batman carrying a small boy from a construction site into his car. A few claimed the boy was wearing a mask and cape. Clark couldn’t dig up much verifiable information on the story considering it was one of many accounts of Batman sightings and a few others on the same message board mentioned a Batman with actual wings and a Batman with long red hair. Definitely not the most credible of sources.

A year or so after that story broke, another appeared in which the Joker did a one-time only, exclusive interview with the Gotham Gazette. It was a big deal seeing as it caused quite the uproar in the journalistic community. There was such an outrage that the original interview was later taken down. All Clark could drudge up were articles denigrating and criticizing the reporter that gave the Joker a sounding board in the first place. However, one article detailed some of the things the Joker had confessed to.

Several accounts of murder, reckless endangerment, driving the stolen batmobile through a crowd of Gotham civilians and several others that left Clark nearly incapable of reading on. Of those crimes, a notable one stood out. Unlike the others with their colorful alliterations and thinly couched nursery rhymes, the clown grew more specific.

_“Me and the old lady took a drive downtown and took a swing at the old Bat and Bird. The Bird didn’t look too good and the Bat didn’t like that one bit. Now, there’s one less bird in the sky and the Bat doesn’t play with others no more.”_

Clark’s insides twisted sickeningly. He read the words two, three more times. It didn’t get any clearer and it was certainly cryptic enough that the clown could have been referring to just about anything. He could have been referring to an actual bird or he could have been lying through his teeth. But the _glee_ – the sheer excitement the writer described left Clark with an unsettled feeling.

The more Clark dug around, the more he came no closer to the answers he sought. Could he prove Bruce Wayne was Batman? If so, should he then try to stop him or try talking him into better methods. And the question that had been gnawing at him since the party, since it became very clear how Bruce Wayne felt about Superman: why did Bruce hate him?

Clark may not have found the answers he was looking for, but he’d found out something new. Something the others didn’t know: sometime between 1999 and now, Batman had had a partner.

And sometime between 1999 and now, he had had lost them.

+

Clark sipped his wine and studied the busy world far, far below.

Lois’ penthouse made Clark’s apartment look like a shoebox perfectly sized to stack neatly in her closet. It wasn’t necessarily showy by any means, but she certainly had one of the larger apartments in Metropolis. Plush furniture, framed newspaper clippings on the walls and awards proudly displayed on the mantelpiece. Pictures of her and her family, celebrities, some with Clark. She had a real life here.

By comparison, Clark’s apartment was rather barren. As though he’d moved in, but he wasn’t sure if he’d be staying. Sometimes, Clark felt like an imposter pretending to be a person. He wondered if Bruce ever felt that way.

“How’s life in the skies?” Lois asked, sipping her martini as she watched him from her place on the couch.

“It’s going,” Clark responded, turning around with a smile. It was nice to enjoy a quiet night with someone who knew all of his secrets. Well, most of them anyway. “I, uh… found a more interesting story at Luthor’s party,” he said slowly, scratching at his brow.

Lois leaned in with interest. She listened intently as Clark told her about his night, his conversation with Bruce. When he got to the kiss, Lois’ eyes went wide and she nearly spit out her drink. “You what?”

Clark covered his eyes. “It just happened.”

Tossing her napkin at him, Lois took another careful sip. “Only you would go snooping around Lex Luthor’s place and find yourself in the arms of a hot billionaire. This is a story right out of a romance novel.”

Clark’s face warmed as he set his glass down on the table. The truth was, he hadn’t really stopped thinking about the kiss. He’d go to work, walk around the city, answer distress calls, research his assignments and, before long, he’d find himself tracing his lips, remembering the taste of mint, the rich scent of his cologne. The casual strength of his hands and the heat warming Clark from the inside out. The curious way Clark had found himself unable to move, unbelievable power at his fingertips and yet, he’d done nothing to stop it.

“I don’t think so,” Clark replied quietly, averting his gaze.

Lois switched gears. “Honestly, Clark, what did you expect to find?” she asked plainly, studying him. “You think Bruce Wayne is Batman.”

Clark held her gaze firmly. “I know he is.”

“Because you heard him talking to someone on a Bluetooth.”

“He was trying to get something off of Lex’s server.”

Lois’ mouth twisted as she thought over his words for a moment. He could see the gears turning as she took a bite of cake and nodded to herself. Her brow furrowed, lost in thought. “Maybe you didn’t stumble across Bruce Wayne, secret vigilante. Maybe you stumbled across corporate espionage.”

It didn’t quite feel right but Lois was much too smart for him to not at least consider her words. “You think so?”

“Wayne Enterprises doesn’t have a lot of competition but, ever since Luthor took over his father’s company, he’s been gathering more and more steam. And you heard about the data breach last year.”

“No, I didn’t.” Clark leaned in with interest.

“Where have you been, farm boy?” she asked fondly, setting her fork down and reaching into her bag. She pulled out a tablet and tapped a few keys, pulling up an article. “Someone hacked into the Wayne Enterprises server, stole a bunch of their financial records and posted them on the internet. Not the dark net, mind you: the _internet_. On a giant cloud drive where any reporter could view them.”

Clark took the tablet and scrolled through a few of the several hundreds of pages. “There has to be decades of data here.”

“Really boring stuff, right?” She took another bite of her cake, her lashes fanning out over her cheeks. “But it’s what’s _not_ here that caught my attention.”

“Which is?”

“You’ll see,” she sang teasingly, returning to her dessert.

Clark scrolled and scrolled but financial analysis had never really been his strong suit. He was much more suited to observing in person and using his keen senses to discern the truth. Finally, Clark reached the end of the documents and looked to Lois in question. She stared at him expectantly before smiling and pointing to the end column of the last page, and the end column on the previous page and so on and so on until a question began to formulate in his mind.

“Where’s the money going?”

“Exactly.” Running a hand through her hair, she looked to him excitedly, her eyes alit with the thrill of the story. “Either your little theory is correct and Mr. Dark and Dreamy is dressing up like a bat every night, or Wayne Enterprises has been hemorrhaging a pretty hefty chunk of change every year. Or, maybe it’s both. Either way, you need to think smart about this.”

Clark smiled. “You’re not going to talk me out of it?”

“I know well enough to know you’re way too invested in this to just let it go.” Clark nodded, scrolling through the pages distractedly. Finally, Lois pushed at his face playfully and gestured to the tablet. “Go, go. I know you’re excited to prove your theory.”

Clark flashed her a grateful smile, gathered his blazer and messenger bag and started towards the patio. “Thanks, Lo.”

“Anytime.” When he reached the doors, she called out, “Don’t think you’re getting out of telling me more about that kiss!”

“Goodnight, Lois!”

+

Clark didn’t go out at night very often.

It wasn’t a conscious choice; more that most of the crime in Metropolis occurred during the day. This night, he’d awoken to the sound of a child crying out in pain. He’d hurried out of bed, slipped into his suit and raced towards the sound, the night sky growing darker the further he went from Metropolis city limits. When he found himself nearing the edge of Gotham City, he dropped down on a rooftop and listened.

There, the sound of another cape whipping through the air followed by a pained groan. Clark moved in closer, trying to keep close to the shadows. The closer he crept, the louder the voices became.

A curse, a loud crunch and the sound of heavy boots crunching on broken glass.

“The brat tried to boost my car!” A man shouted. A thud and a quick intake of breath.

“So, you hit a kid? Get out of my sight,” a stern voice commanded.

Peering over the edge of the rooftop, Clark could make out a figure racing out of the alley. A little ways back, Clark could see a dark figure standing over a child. The child was sitting on the ground covering their eye as Batman ducked down and picked them up. Surprisingly gentle, he rested the kid on his hip to check his face. The kid couldn’t have been more than five or six years old. Clark had heard how different Gotham was from Metropolis and Smallville but it was still alarming to see just how different they were.

“Are you okay?” Batman asked, his voice much softer than before. It set Clark at ease and, from the looks of it, the child, as well. Batman tilted the kid’s head back and tsked, “That eye doesn’t look too good. You should see someone.”

The kid shoved at Batman’s chest, kicking at his stomach. “Put me down!”

“Hey, hey, hey,” Batman tried, holding him back where he kicked at the air. “It’ll be safe there.”

“They’ll call the cops!”

“I know someone who won’t.” The kid stopped trying to strike him in the face but he didn’t quite relax. Instead, his heart beat fast in his chest as he stared at Batman for a solid minute. “Honest. If you want, I’ll even go with you.”

Another minute in which Batman studied the kid calmly and then a quiet nod. Clark watched as Bruce walked with the kid to his car and drove a couple of blocks. He could just hear the sound of quiet conversation, Batman coaxing the frightened boy to talk by goading him with light teasing. It was strangely effective; Clark swore he even heard the kid laugh beneath the roar of the engine. Something in him warmed curiously as he listened.

Eventually, he came to a stop outside of an average looking building and took the kid inside. From what Clark could see, it was some sort of clinic. True to his word, Batman entered with the kid and waited as the doctor took a look at the kid’s face.

The sun was starting to rise as Clark settled against a brick wall and watched from the rooftop opposite the clinic. The doctor gave the kid some ice for the swelling and told him of a place where he could find a warm bed for the night. Judging by the tick in heart rate, the kid’s promise to “check it out” was about as false as the name Batman had given the doctor.

Clark had started to drift off when he heard the sound of a cape whipping through the air. Footsteps crept quietly towards him.

“I don’t like to be followed.”

“So I’ve heard,” Clark replied dryly, opening his eyes to find Batman standing a few feet from him. He looked well, no visible bruises. Clark would scan the rest of him but there was some boundary keeping him from looking closer at his body.

“What are you doing here? I figured Gotham City beneath you.”

Frowning, Clark stood and moved towards him. “Someone needed help. I came.”

“People always need help,” came the gruff response. “Especially here.”

Was this why Batman didn’t like him? Because he’d never come to Gotham? “I heard a call. I came. It’s that simple.” Clearing his throat, he moved in closer. Batman’s chin rose, his heart ticking up a bit. “I could help you.”

The stern frown twisted into a humorless grin. “Help me? I want my city safe and in one piece. You don’t help people; you wreck cities. You destroy buildings and homes, tear _families_ apart. You create orphans,” his voice cut off abruptly. “Maybe your city sees you as some sort of messiah because you stop runaway trains and pull cats out of trees.”

The phrasing, the cadence was startlingly familiar. “But you’re not a hero. You’re a liability.” Backing up a few steps, he pulled out a gun. Clark tensed, watching as it shot out a hook to the next building. “As far as I’m concerned, you staying out of my city is the best thing for us.”

Batman disappeared into the night, as though he’d been born of the shadows and had returned home.

As disappointed as Clark was, the Bat had answered a few of his questions.

And left him with a few more.

+

Bruce Wayne was an orphan. 

It hadn’t been hard to find that information but there was something in the way Batman – _Bruce_ – had said the word that left Clark a little lost. The Waynes had been killed while leaving the theater one night. A gunman shot Thomas Wayne and then Martha, in front of their small son. Bruce had been 9 years old. It hadn’t been easy to read but now, now that Clark knew how Bruce treated children, it left Clark certain that he’d missed something.

Bruce had a soft spot for children. He’d even adopted, or at least fostered, one in the past. The Joker and Harley Quinn appeared to have done something awful to them. Where had that child come from? Where had they gone? Clark researched for hours but he couldn’t find anything concrete in the papers. Not even an obituary. Not so much as one Cat Grant gossip piece about a secret lovechild.

He called around, talked to some of Wayne Enterprise’s long-time business partners, some old family friends of the Waynes, even some old college professors. None of them left Clark any closer to the answers he was looking for.

What was he missing?

Around mid-day, Clark pushed away from his desk and got up to get a cup of coffee. When he returned, Lois was sitting at his chair looking rather smug. “What is it?”

“I have something for you.” She gestured to a rather extravagant arrangement of flowers taking up nearly half of his desk.

Frowning, Clark moved toward it cautiously, glancing at their coworkers. Some of them didn’t even have the grace to pretend they hadn’t been staring. “You shouldn’t have.”

“I didn’t,” she said, handing him a small card. “You have a not so secret admirer.”

Stomach twisting, Clark took the card.

_“I hear you’ve been asking about me._

_I’ve got nothing to hide._

_You know where to find me.”_

Lois eyed him worriedly. “You in some sort of trouble?”

“Does this read like a threat to you?”

“No,” she said, taking the card back. “At first glance, it’s a little worrying. But it makes sense, right?” She ran a hand through her hair, brow furrowed. “You followed him on a hunch and you’ve been digging into his life. Clearly, it’s sending up a few red flags.”

“Because I’m right,” he hissed.

“If you’re not, to Bruce, you’re a reporter looking for a scoop. A reporter that ignored every piece of low hanging fruit. I’d be worried, too.”

She studied the bouquet once more. It was a bundle of freshly cut, bright, blood red roses with a single white rose in the center. Almost certain to have come from a florist in Metropolis because Clark highly doubted they had sunlight in Gotham.

“Although, I don’t know that I would shell out six hundred dollars to smoke you out.”

Clark nearly choked on his coffee. “Six – six _hundred_?” Clark asked, staring at the flowers in disbelief. “Six hundred dollars?”

“Flowers are expensive and those could not have cost less than six hundred. Probably more.” She hid a smile. “Sure he’s not just trying to get you to come see him because he kissed you?”

A few heads turned towards them in intrigue and Clark sighed, pulling Lois towards the hallway. “I told you, he did that to distract from whatever he was doing in Luthor’s server room.”

“Sure, sure,” she teased.

“Lois,” he began, pacing for a moment and covering his face.

“Stranger things have happened.”

Clark dropped his hand. “He’s not interested. Believe me.”

Her eyes narrowed. “What are you not telling me?”

To his surprise, the words were difficult to find. Averting his gaze, he replied softly, “He hates me.’ He swallowed, his voice rough. “Because of what happened with Zod. All the destruction, the people that died… he blames me.”

Lois’ eyes softened and she stroked his arm. “Clark, you did the best you could.”

Swallowing, he replied, “That doesn’t change anything. He’s only asking the same questions everyone else has. The questions I’ve asked myself.” He looked to her helplessly, his stomach twisting into knots. “Am I doing more harm than good?”

“If you hadn’t stopped Zod, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. This building, this entire city would be in ruin if it weren’t for you. If he can’t see that…” She trailed off, seeing something in Clark’s face that gave her pause. “Why does this matter to you? Why do you care what he thinks?”

“It’s not just him, Lo.”

“I know that.” She cocked her head to the side. “I’ve never seen you take these criticisms this hard. Why now? What’s changed?”

+

Clark was playing with fire.

He’d known that when he’d gotten dressed that morning but, what more did he have to lose? Bruce Wayne was Batman and while Clark didn’t have enough to prove it to others yet, he would soon. Clark was sure the last thing Bruce expected was to find Clark Kent sitting in his office but he’d practically sent an invitation.

And Clark had been raised to be polite.

So, there he sat, in one of the many plush chairs outside Wayne’s double doors. The sleek, chrome accents and mahogany furniture made Clark feel underdressed, even sitting here in his nicest suit. The assistant had bought his story about follow up quotes for a puff piece on the Gotham Knights. When Wayne showed up, it was around nine in the morning. The moment the elevator doors opened, Clark felt his heart beat faster. Eyes widening briefly in surprise, Bruce looked past him and strode forward confidently.

Dressed in a sleek charcoal grey suit and vest his hair perfectly coiffed, it was a wonder if the man knew how to look unattractive. It was almost annoying.

“Mr. Kent,” he greeted tersely, gesturing to his office. “Shall we?”

Nodding, Clark pulled nervously at his collar and waved at the assistant as he followed Bruce inside. As strange as it sounded, Clark was almost excited. He’d been pacing all night long, thinking about just what he’d say to Bruce, assuming he agreed to speak with him. Now that it was finally happening, he’d forgotten everything he rehearsed.

Clearing his throat, he studied the office around them. The large expanse, the two large walls of startling clean windows and the large mahogany desk. The many shelves behind it filled with books, several of which were in different languages. A large computer sat atop the desk, unlike anything Clark had ever seen. He focused on their surroundings and not the familiar scent drawing him forward.

The office was free of the usual clutter that found its way to Clark’s small cubicle at work. In fact, looking around at the sleek hardwood floors and modern furniture, it looked almost as if no one ever worked here at all.

Sitting on the edge of the edge of the desk, Bruce turned to him with a blank expression.

Fidgeting a bit, Clark touched his glasses briefly in a nervous habit. It drew Bruce’s eye. “Thanks for the flowers. You didn’t have to go to the trouble.”

Crossing his arms, Bruce’s eyes pinned him in place. “Apparently, I did. Here you are.” Arching a brow, he waited expectantly.

Clearing his throat, Clark took a step forward, his heart beating faster. “I’ve been asking around about you.”

“I know.”

“There’s not a lot out there.”

“I know.”

He studied Clark intently and Clark’s stomach twisted nervously in response. “You kissed me,” he blurted out. Bruce’s eyes widened minutely, his head cocking to the side as Clark’s cheeks warmed.

“You’ve been digging into my past because I kissed you? You do that to all your girlfriends?” he asked wryly.

He’d meant it as a dig but it gave something away, derailing Clark’s train of thought for a moment. Bruce had been looking into his history.

“Girlfriends?” he repeated slowly. Bruce pursed his lips for a moment but remained silent. “You kissed me and you knew I’d never kissed a man before.”

“It’s not a wild leap of logic,” Bruce began. “Heterosexual men are still the majority. Everyone knew you and Ms. Lane were serious previously. You came from a small town. Were you to have interest in men, it stands to reason you probably wouldn’t have acted on it.”

Clark blinked at him. “No articles in your high school paper or prom photos suggest any trysts outside of one girlfriend. All signs point to you being heterosexual.” Clearing his throat, he added quietly, “Or closeted.”

“And yet, you still kissed me.”

“You kissed me back.” His brow furrowed, “You want to tell me you were just being polite?”

Clark studied his face for a moment as the realization hit. “That’s what’s bothering you.”

“Excuse me?”

“You clearly looked me up. Went through my history. You found my yearbooks.” He moved in closer, the scent of Bruce’s cologne now impossible to ignore. Something woody, just a hint of spice. Expensive and alluring. “You weren’t expecting that.”

Bruce’s nose wrinkled, his heart ticking up ever so slightly, Clark notes with intrigue. Moving in closer, he stood less than foot away from Clark as he spoke. “I looked you up because you seem to have a habit of sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

“I could say the same of you. Or did Lex give you permission to go fiddling around in his server room?”

Bruce’s eyes were bright, clear and almost severe as he stared Clark down. His breath misted lightly over Clark’s face, his arms brushing Clark’s chest as he crossed them. They were standing so close together that it wouldn’t take much for them to touch. The space between them charged with a tension Clark couldn’t find the words for. Reminiscent of that first night where Clark had been torn between wondering if he wanted to punch the man or –

His eyes cut to Bruce’s mouth before meeting his eyes once more. Bruce didn’t appear smug. Instead, he seemed almost afraid. The skin beneath his eyes was too evenly colored, as though he was wearing concealer to cover dark shadows. It made sense considering he worked nights but, more than that, Bruce was exhausted. Something was keeping him up at night.

“You came here for a reason. Out with it, Kent,” he said finally.

“My father taught me the importance in being a man, looking someone in the eye and telling them upfront when you’ve got a problem with them.” He took a deep breath, steeling himself. “I know your secret, Bruce. I know what you’ve been doing. I know you have your reasons but your methods are… cruel.”

The corner of Bruce’s mouth turned up. “And yours aren’t?” Clark stopped cold, his eyes widening. “I read the sealed military files. Zod’s neck was broken. You did that.”

A grim smile graced his face as he continued, “I lost count of how many people died when those buildings came down. How many first responders, mothers, fathers, _children_ – “

“Enough,” Clark replied, stomach twisting.

Bruce rose up, his voice gathering strength, “All of them gone because you brought a fight you couldn’t handle – “

“And you could? Where were you, Bruce?”

“I was cleaning up your messes!”

Quick as a viper, Clark planted a hand in the center of Bruce’s chest and slammed him down on the desk. Bruce’s breath quickened, but he gave no other sign that Clark had touched him. Leaning in closer, Clark stared at his hand and tried to calm himself, adrenalin coursing through his blood. How easily he could simply add a little more pressure and crush Bruce’s sternum, push a little harder and sending his hand right through his chest. His body was strung tight like a band, eyes caught in the way Bruce’s eyes had narrowed in grim satisfaction.

“That’s it,” he breathed, his cheeks flushed. “Show everyone what you really are.”

Clark gripped Bruce’s shirt, a myriad of emotions racing through his mind before he settled on one: rage. His hand tightened as he held Bruce down with minimal effort, the air between them rife with tension as he felt Bruce’s heart rate tick up beneath his fingers. Bruce waited expectantly, his lips parted.

On a razor thin edge, Clark felt his nerves on end, breath caught as his grip tightened and Bruce’s buttons strained. With a curse, he wrenched Bruce upward, crushing their mouths together. More of an attack than a kiss, Bruce’s body tensed all at once. His mouth twisted in a sneer, hands coming up to grasp a handful of Clark’s hair. Gripping tightly, he held Clark close, desire bleeding into rage into desperate urgency as he claimed and bit Clark’s lips, tongue sliding in demandingly. Even on top, Clark felt helpless to follow Bruce’s lead, giving in to his command.

The rest of the office fell away, his focus centered on Bruce’s hushed breaths, his heart beating fast in his chest as he tugged Clark’s head back and devoured him. His hands tore at Clark’s blazer, pulled his shirt from his slacks, the taste of blood on his tongue as Clark felt his pants loosen around his waist. Bruce fell back on the desk, holding Clark close as his lapels fell open and he ran his hands down Clark’s bare chest.

He shoved Clark’s pants down, wrapping his strong thighs around Clark’s waist and rolling his hips upward. Clark broke off with a groan, bucking forward mindlessly, chasing the sweet friction. Bruce gripped his face, taking his tongue once more as he set a steady rhythm, sliding against Clark demandingly. A sharp nip to Clark’s lip drew his focus and he felt the hard bulge of Bruce’s cock pressed against his thigh, pulsing needfully in his slacks as he panted into their wet clash of tongues and teeth.

Bruce was controlled, even in this. Every small slip, every soft moan or greedy tightening of his fingers in Clark’s hair felt like a victory. Like he was taking some part of that painstaking self-control and corrupting it, twisting into something of his own creation. Bruce thought he was so perfect, so refined, skilled in a way Clark could never be: yet here he was, spread out on his back and clinging to Clark for release. Writhing against him as Clark tore his shirt apart and left him bare for his eyes only.

In an office that was more glass than wood. More exposed than hidden. They hadn’t even locked the door. Should someone enter, they’d see what Clark could see. Every desperate roll of Bruce’s hips, every hungry suck, every mark Clark left on his throat. They’d hear the soft groans, the demanding little grunts as he chased Clark’s tongue.

It was rushed. Quick and dirty.

And Clark couldn’t bring himself to stop.

Gripping Bruce’s wrists, he pressed them to the desk, earning a shuddering groan as Bruce’s eyes opened in an instant, holding Clark’s challengingly. He pushed; it didn’t make a difference. Clark held him easily with no effort whatsoever. He’d wondered if Bruce would fight him; if he’d find that familiar fear in Bruce’s eyes once he realized how easy it would be for Clark to overpower him. Instead, the dangerous glint in Bruce’s eye sharpened, cheeks flushed with arousal as his cock jerked between them. Clark rut against him, more forcefully as that tight heat began to melt and spread from his center outward.

Nosing into Bruce’s throat, he let go of some of his control, in increments. Each thrust growing rougher with every soft hitch of Bruce’s breath, every sound he failed to stifle. The bitten off moans Clark pulled from him despite his best efforts to quiet them.

Every one a victory as Clark’s hips snapped forward, faster and faster as he chased that tightly coiled heat in his center. It wasn’t just need; he wanted so badly to drag Bruce down with him. To mark him, stain him where anyone could see. Drag him down to Clark’s level. Make a mess of him he couldn’t ignore.

He wanted them to be the same.

Bruce’s nails slid ineffectively over his back, lip caught in his teeth as he bucked wordlessly against Clark and wet warmth spread between them. Clark pulled up, rolling his hips and working him through it as he watched Bruce’s face grow lax, his lips red and bruised. There was a look in his eye, a small widening in realization. Clark followed soon after him, his cock pulsing and spilling messy and wet in his slacks. His eyes fell shut, hands tightening around Bruce’s wrists as he came down, bucking mindlessly.

When Clark’s hips slowed and he opened his eyes, Bruce was watching him silently. 

Of all the things Clark expected, or even imagined when he’d given up trying not to think of him, Bruce stretched out and said, “I’m not afraid of you.”

Swallowing, Clark let go up his wrists and stood up straight. Spread out, spent and sweaty, Bruce still managed to look in control. Even as Clark caught the fading marks of his hands on Bruce’s wrists.

It took a few tries before he could make the words come. “Yes, you are.”


	2. Chapter 2

Clark didn’t go out at night often but, occasionally he found himself flying into action.

This night, a fire had started in the basement of a 20-floor apartment building. He heard the alarms first and suited up, the screams came soon after. For a moment, he was overwhelmed. Getting input from all directions: news reporters, 911 calls, first responders, people inside and outside the building. Men, women and children; families. Torn apart and carried out separately as the brave firefighters did all they could do before he arrived.

He raced in, carefully of the damaged support beams as the walls started to cave in on themselves. They saved nearly everyone before the first six floors caved in. They lost a family of four and two elderly sisters that had gotten trapped in their apartments. Clark heard their cries for help, dug through the rubble with his bare hands. He was still digging well into the morning but they were gone. Even moving as fast as he had, he wasn’t fast enough.

It seemed he never was, these days.

By the time he returned home, the sun had started to rise. Too late to go back to bed, not that he thought he’d be able to get sleep anyway. Instead, he got changed for work and made a strong cup of coffee out of habit. Standing out on his balcony, he watched the sun rise in the distance.

Then he heard the sound of quiet breathing and heavy boots.

“You’re out late,” he said, taking a long sip. His heart had ticked up a bit, more nerves than anything else.

He hadn’t seen Bruce since he’d gone to visit him at his office. Clark had been so out of sorts afterwards that he hadn’t touched the thick file he’d been building on the Bat of Gotham. Three weeks had come and gone and he hadn’t been able to look at the folder without his face burning in some mixture of shame and resignation. He was supposed to be researching, using his reporting skills to prove a theory and not… whatever he’d done that day in Bruce’s office.

Even forbidding himself to dwell on it hadn’t been a help. He’d find himself thinking about Bruce when he came across an ad for Wayne Enterprises, when his name came up in articles for the Planet, or when Lois tried to pry more details about their kiss. Even worse, he’d found his hand slipping into his pants late at night and the moment his eyes closed, he saw that knowing look in Bruce’s eye.

Batman kept close to the shadows. “I could say the same to you. I thought the night wasn’t your scene.”

“Most crimes happen during the day. In Metropolis,” he added carefully. “Interrupts my work day but I get sleep.”

“Most nights.” A pause. “The building wasn’t up to code. Last inspection went by a little too quickly with a generous tip from the super. Nothing you could have done.”

Even watching him raise his chin and focus steadfastly on the building across from them, Clark felt the weight of the anchor sitting on his chest lighten somewhat. “You looked into the building?”

“I thought it was more collateral damage.”

Clark shook his head, straightening his glasses. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

It was quiet for a moment before heavy boots landed on the balcony and Batman rose from the shadows. It was almost eerie seeing him in the light. Such a dark ominous figure in the night; in sunlight, Clark was able to make out the weighty utility belt, heavy artillery boots and the thick lines of his muscular thighs. Thighs that had wrapped so tightly around his waist and held him as he writhed beneath Clark’s body. He forced his gaze upward, taking in the cowl with its pointed ears, the bat emblem on his chest, the dark shadows underneath his eyes. And his face –

Clark set his mug down and moved in closer. Bruce stiffened, his body rigid as he watched Clark’s hands guardedly. Clark moved slowly, painfully slow, as he reached out and touched the edge of a gash on Bruce’s cheek. His cowl covered the start of it but it appeared rather deep, Clark’s fingers coming away wet. As Clark examined the red, he was almost more surprised to see that Batman bled.

“Do you bleed?” Bruce asked and Clark wondered if he’d given voice to his thoughts.

Bruce eyed him emphatically, one of his more annoying habits. Clark had learned to relate to others by watching them, reading their emotions. Bruce, for the most part, was indecipherable. Clark had found himself up late on his laptop a few nights watching Bruce in interviews, his speeches at charity auctions, even a few soundbites from paparazzi following him around Gotham.

When he was Bruce Wayne, the people saw what he wanted them to see: a playboy, the poised leader of a Fortune 500 Company, or a polite billionaire on his way to work in the morning. When he was Batman, he was an expressionless shadow.

Clark wondered who Bruce truly was underneath. Who he’d been before he’d found himself alone.

Stepping backwards into the apartment, Clark waited with bated breath as Bruce scanned the entryway before following. Fighting the urge to clear some of the clutter on the coffee table, the newspapers on the couch. Bruce noted it briefly but didn’t say anything as he stood rather close to the patio door, poised for escape.

“It’d be easier if you followed me to the back.” Bruce cocked his head to the side and Clark’s face warmed. “To the bathroom. I’m not trying to seduce you.”

Bruce stood still for another minute before moving forward smoothly. A little too smoothly as Clark noted his gait. When he got Bruce inside the small bathroom, he watched him remove the cowl and stifled a gasp. The gash lined Bruce’s cheek, cut along his temple and disappeared into his hairline. Deep enough that Clark felt certain it would scar. Swallowing, he looked to Bruce’s curious expression before focusing on the cut once more. With the cowl off, he was able to see that Bruce’s skull was intact. Although, the healed over fractures didn’t inspire much confidence. 

Clark felt Bruce’s eyes on him as he set about washing his hands. He picked up the first aid kit and opened it, nearly upending the entire kit under Bruce’s watchful gaze. Clearing his throat, he pulled out a swab and started cleaning the cut, pushing Bruce to sit on the counter. Bruce’s breath quickened as he moved, his left hand making an aborted motion towards his side. Clark tsked, pulling his hands back as Bruce stared resolutely ahead.

“Does the voice in your ear patch you up?”

The corner of Bruce’s mouth twitched, not quite in a smile. “Usually.”

“And rather than go to him or to your doctor friend,” Bruce’s eyes narrowed, “you decided to come to my apartment.”

“I don’t trust you.”

A few months ago, maybe that would have hurt Clark’s feelings. “I know that.”

“I had a theory. I was wrong.”

His temple pulsed as Clark carefully dabbed at the gash. It was moments like this, or when entrusted with the care of infants, that Clark truly felt the challenge of being gentle. Press too hard and cause more pain than needed, forget himself and cause more harm than good.

Bruce’s breathing grew heavier and Clark processed his words. Martha had raised him to be polite, even towards those he wasn’t very fond of, so he felt compelled to add, “Thank you for telling me.”

He pulled out a liquid bandage and started to applying it. He moved slowly, painstakingly careful. Even so, Bruce caught his wrist and held it, his eyes sharp. “That doesn’t comfort you.”

Clark held his gaze, even as his stomach twisted painfully, his heart heavy. “Those people didn’t die because of me, but they’re not here right now, are they? If I’d been faster, if I’d started from the bottom and worked my way up. If I’d trained in the methods of the first responders. If I’d chosen to rent an apartment more in the center of the city. If then, if then… I could have saved them all.”

Bruce’s eyes narrowed for a moment and he released Clark’s hand. Clark returned to closing the wound, feeling a little winded for some unknown reason. Bruce gazed at him silently.

Then, “You don’t come to Gotham.”

“I know.”

“You go everywhere else.”

Sighing, Clark set the bottle down and crossed his arms. “Do you want me there? Are you recruiting?”

Now, the corner of Bruce’s mouth curled up, almost giving the illusion of a smile. “You wouldn’t like it there. Not enough sun.”

Clark smiled despite himself. “So I’ve noticed.”

Bruce sobered and Clark found that he missed the lighter expression. “Is there a reason you avoid Gotham?”

“I don’t hear everything and I can’t stop every small-time crime in the world,” he answered regretfully. “Would that I could. Working to send money home to my Ma, trying to stay hidden and keep my secrets… it’s hard. I know they’re excuses but— “

“We’re beneath you,” Bruce finished and Clark looked to him in horror.

But there, just there… a slight dimple in his cheek where he hid a smile. It filled Clark with a slow spreading warmth and he bit his lip, ducking his head.

He gestured to Bruce’s armor, “Are you going to show me your side now?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re clearly injured,” he replied and as much as he worried about revealing all of his abilities, he added, “can I at least see if you’ve broken any bones?”

Bruce’s eyes widened ever so slightly as he shook his head once more. “I don’t think so.”

“Please,” Clark insisted, his eyes softening. “I just want to help.”

Bruce studied him for a long while, his stare heavy with thoughts Clark could only imagine. It was hard enough growing up with the knowledge that he had to hide himself away. Even so, Clark couldn’t fathom going through life distrustful of everyone. He’d spent nights awake wondering about that look in Bruce’s eye, about the voice in his ear, about whether he’d ever let anyone get truly close to him after losing his parents. The tabloids detailed conquest after conquest but, by the looks of things, no one really stayed. Or he simply never let them in.

Clark had started to give up when Bruce let out a slow breath and reached for the discreet fastenings on his suit. It required pulling off the cape before he started on the chest piece. There were several hidden panels and zippers, each piece sounding heavy and weighted as they fell to the tile floor. Clark wondered how Bruce ever managed to suit up quickly in emergencies, how any of it could possibly be comfortable. Clark reached out to help but Bruce veered back suddenly, his hands freezing.

Clark held his own out in surrender, breathing quickening as he waited. Finally, Bruce continued. When he got to the bottom layer, his fingers came away wet, the scent of blood turning Clark’s stomach. Bruce pulled the fabric away where it was drenched, dark and heavy with blood.

It was worse than it looked: the puncture wound in Bruce’s side still oozing slowly. Every inhale caused more to spill and Clark wondered how Bruce had sat there and managed to have a conversation. How often did he push through injuries like this?

“Christ,” he murmured, moving in closer as he palmed Bruce’s hip.

There didn’t appear to be any broken or cracked ribs, no damage Clark could see aside from the obvious. Bruce had gotten lucky; though Clark was sure he wouldn’t see it that way. Reaching over for the kit, he wiped at his face as his hands threatened to shake. When he returned, Bruce was staring at him. Hard to say for sure if he’d ever stopped. He watched as Clark cleaned and bandaged the wound.

Finally, he asked gruffly, “You heard the tale of the scorpion and the frog?”

Chewing on his lip, Clark focused on his work and not the warmth of Bruce’s skin. With the blood gone, he could smell more of Bruce’s natural scent: leather and sweat. Nothing that would be all that pleasant but it left Clark a little distracted, fighting the urge to nose into the groove of Bruce’s hip and inhale deeply. Thick thighs spread on either side of him as he licked his lips and ignored the way arousal had started to cloud his head. Drawn closer, Bruce’s warmth started to envelope him.

Chewing on his lip, Clark secured the bandage, running a hand through his hair. When he looked up, the intensity of Bruce’s stare led him to avert his eyes in an instant.

“There,” he rasped. “All done.”

The silence was deafening. Clark could feel every inch of space between them, his face warming. Bruce’s toned thighs still boxing him in, encased in tight black pants. His wrist brushed Clark’s side as he rested it on his leg, sitting on the counter in Clark’s tiny bathroom. It was simply too small for two men over 6 feet. That was the only explanation for why every one of Clark’s breaths brought him closer to Bruce. Why he found himself mere inches away, Bruce’s quiet breathing loud in his ears.

A hand gripped the front of Clark’s shirt and wrenched him forward, their mouths meeting in the center. Ensnared, Clark welcomed Bruce’s tongue, eyes falling shut as Bruce’s thighs held tight to his hips. He was so large, much bigger than most men and it made Clark’s stomach tighten in anticipation. Tipping Bruce’s head back, he smiled as Bruce fought against it and tugged at the back of Clark’s soft curls.

Clark had always considered himself a gentle lover. He’d had the importance of being gentle and careful instilled upon at such an early age and those lessons had stayed with him all these years. That fear of going too far had never truly left him.

Until now.

He grasped Bruce’s wrist and pressed it to the mirror with ease. Grunting, Bruce fought back more out of principle, pulling harder on Clark’s hair. Clark pressed down with a little more pressure, holding Bruce’s gaze. He found acceptance there: the quiet acquiescence that Clark could hold him with no effort whatsoever. The understanding that he was without armor and his usual tricks up his sleeve. A quiet acknowledgement and no attempt to escape.

Clark dropped his wrist and wrapped his hand around Bruce’s throat. The pulse point ticked up momentarily, evening out in a steady drum. Clark’s breath caught, eyes tracing Bruce’s face as his cheeks colored, eyes darkening, focused on Clark. A pink tongue caught between his teeth, Bruce’s thighs tightened, an aborted buck of his hips before he reined himself in. It stoked the fire in Clark’s blood, his cock taking interest.

“You’re starting to enjoy this,” Clark murmured.

“So are you,” Bruce replied huskily.

He started on the fastening of Clark’s pants, appearing right at home with Clark’s hand around his throat. Taking hold of Clark’s hardening cock, he stroked him firmly, his grip just this side of perfect: tight and unyielding, knowing and efficient. He relaxed against the mirror, eyes focused on Clark’s as he worked. His breathing steady and calm, pulse thumping beneath Clark’s thumb.

The sight of Bruce’s clever hand wrapped around his cock was nearly too much for him. His eyes shot upward, breath catching as Bruce watched. His painstaking control was still present, though it had started to wear around the edges. His breathing growing heavier, pulse quickening Tentatively, Clark rolled his hips forward, pushing into Bruce’s grip. They moved together, in sync in an instant. Clark saw nothing past the intense focus on Bruce’s eyes, heard nothing past their hushed breathing, felt he rushing tide rising up within him.

His orgasm hit like a shot to the heart, stomach clenching tight as he spilled over Bruce’s fist. He let out a strangled moan, bucking into Bruce’s hand as he worked him avidly, his eyes eating up every tremor in Clark’s body. He stroked him, paying no attention to the mess he was making of himself.

He pulled his hand up to his mouth, his tongue dipping out for a taste. Groaning, Clark leaned in to chase it. Bruce cupped his face with his clean hand, gripping his chin as he held Clark close and attacked his mouth. The bitter taste of his release sparked across his tongue as Bruce rose against him, pushing him back and through the doorway.

He backed Clark down the hall to his bedroom. Perhaps Clark should wonder about how he’d known which door was his but he was lost in the slide of their tongues, Bruce’s hands on his clothes. Bruce tossed his glasses aside, pushed at Clark’s pants and pushing his shirt off of his shoulders. He pulled off his boots and pushed his own pants off frustratedly. His cock curved up, flushed and hard against his belly, the sight making Clark’s mouth water in anticipation.

It was somewhat incredible to feel the urge to push Bruce down and give in to it. To press a hand to his chest, slide down to his stomach and hold him there as he stretched out on his front. Heavy and wet, Bruce’s cock throbbed between them, the musky scent of sweat and sex driving Clark’s desire.

Holding Bruce’s gaze, Clark slid his tongue along the underside of his cock. With a quiet intake of breath, Bruce watched avidly, his cock jerking along Clark’s tongue as he traced the veins, laying soft sucks along the length. Bruce’s eyes were hooded, following every kiss, the curious way Clark took hold of him almost reverently and lapped wetly at the head. It was clear Clark had never done this before; even clearer he was letting curiosity drive him now.

The weight of him on Clark’s tongue, the way his mouth stretched tight around his length, it was nothing compared to the full force of Bruce’s attention. The way he fought to keep himself under control, fraying at the edges the more he watched Clark lose himself in the task, taking more and more of him inside.

Pulling off with a wet pop, Clark traced the inside of his lip with the head. Bruce shuddered, the first real sign that this was starting to affect him. Thighs tensing, his eyes caught on the wet sheen of Clark’s lips, the sight of the fat head of his cock sliding inside inch by inch. Suckling softly, Clark’s eyes fell shut as Bruce’s taste spread across his tongue.

He was eager to go fast but he made himself take it slow, his palm spreading out across Bruce’s stomach and feeling him tense beneath his hand. Clark worked, bobbing his head and sucking intently, every pulse a victory.

Then, there, the feel of strong fingers sliding through his hair. A caress before he pulled sharply at the ends. Clark moaned, stifled around the length in his mouth. It earned a strangled groan, more of that taste in his mouth. It left Clark eagerly chasing more, sucking hungrily, unashamedly. Pulling up, he swiped his tongue over the head before diving in once more.

Bruce’s heart ticked up, a low moan escaping as he gripped Clark’s hair and came. Holding Clark tight to him, his cock pulsed hard as he released down Clark’s throat. Stroking him through it, Clark swallowed everything he had to give. Bruce shivered, a small line creasing his brow as he shook. Cheeks flushed, lashes fluttering as he rode it out, pushing into Clark’s mouth.

He was beautiful like this.

Laid low and bare for the first time since Clark had met him.

Lapping at the head once more, Clark pulled off with a soft pop. Sitting back on his knees, he watched as Bruce regained control of his breathing. With his cock hanging spent and limp on his stomach, hair mussed, Bruce was a lot less intimidating.

For a second.

Sitting up quietly, Bruce tucked himself in and straightened what little of his armor he’d brought in here. Clark lay back in bed, watching him move silently. When Bruce reached the door, Clark felt something strange come over him.

“You’ll let me know what you decide?” Bruce froze, shoulders stiffening but he didn’t turn. “If you decide to kill me,” he finished.

Bruce gripped the doorjamb, his head lowered for a moment before he disappeared into the shadows.

+

A few weeks passed without note.

Clark worked and stopped crises around the world. And worked. And rescued an entire village from a flood. And worked. And worked. Visited Ma on the farm. And worked. And worked.

He refused to think about Bruce. Hadn’t touched his research since that day he’d found the flowers on his desk.

What he’d done was more than ill-advised; it was dangerous. Bruce had as good as admitted where his mind was headed. He thought Clark a liability and whether he’d settled on a permanent solution or not, he’d considered it. At least for a moment. And instead of packing up and leaving, Clark had stayed. He hadn’t even moved. Bruce knew where he lived, he knew his name, it was safe to say he knew about Clark’s mother, as well.

Instead of doing the wise thing, the safe thing, Clark had stayed. Continued living his life as though nothing had changed. He stayed out of Gotham and Bruce stayed out of Metropolis.

Then one day, Clark came into the office to find a man sitting at his desk. The rest of the office was all aflutter, hushed whispers abounded as he reached his workstation. Pushing his glasses up on his nose, he tried to temper his nerves. Bruce sat at his chair, flipping through a magazine with a rather bored look on his face.

Clark was a little self-conscious about his cluttered desk and the secondhand laptop that had seen better days. The little Superman figures Lois had gifted him as a joke. The little box of snacks his mother sent every month as though he couldn’t go out to the grocery store. Holding tight to his bag strap, he steeled himself as he came to a stop beside Bruce.

He looked good: better rested, a faint mark and nothing more where the gash had been. His hair perfectly coiffed, his face cleanly shaven, his suit pressed and fitted perfectly. Cufflinks in place, a watch that cost more than Clark’s apartment. He forced his gaze upward before he found himself focused on Bruce’s hands.

Bruce tapped a picture frame on the desk with a dry, “Cute.”

It was a picture of Clark at six years old, holding a large fish with a big, toothless grin on his face. His father sat behind him, an arm around his shoulders and a proud smile on his face. Blushing, Clark turned it face down as Bruce turned to face him. Scanning Clark from head to toe, a slight furrow in his brow.

Clark could already hear the office gossip mill start to churn and he wondered what this looked like to them. Lois would have better insight but the others, would they be able to tell? Would they be able to look at this seemingly harmless, yet unlikely, encounter and know that Clark and Bruce had been involved? That Clark knew the sound he made when he came, knew what it felt like to have those muscular thighs wrapped tight around his waist and tensing with every barely stifled moan.

Bruce gazed up at him, an intrigued glint in his eye, as though he knew what had run through Clark’s mind. “Can I help you, Mr. Wayne?”

The corner of Bruce’s mouth twitched before he spoke. “No, but I can help you.” Clark moved in a little closer. “Wayne Enterprises is hosting a charity gala.”

“For a depressing city, you sure host a lot of those.”

“I figured it would be a great opportunity for you to write a story on me.”

Frowning, Clark asked, “Why would I do that? And you talk as though I’d be able to get in.” At Bruce’s pointed stare, he explained, “I mean that I do puff pieces. Sports pieces more often than not. I don’t do gossip or fashion. And if it’s a who’s who of billionaires, that’s more up Lois’ alley. She handles corporate corruption.”

Bruce’s temple pulsed and Clark was surprised to find that he’d learned the tell-tale signs of when Bruce was annoyed. “If only you knew someone who could guarantee you an invite.”

“And why would you do that?” Leaning in closer, his leg pressed against the inside of Bruce’s thigh. “Do you need me to make you look good? Is someone getting suspicious,” he asked, lowering his volume.

Bruce’s eyes widened, pupils dilating and Clark heard the distinct sound of his heartbeat quickening. Clark was essentially a human lie detector. His mother had learned that the hard way when she’d tried to pass off a story that his childhood dog, Rusty, had gone to another farm to live with other dogs. When he’d started bawling and refused to speak to her for the rest of the day, she put two and two together.

He’d been taught that it was an invasion of privacy, especially to use it on people he was close to. But, with Bruce, he had no such compunction. Clearly, he’d stumbled onto something here. Bruce was worried, he felt threatened, and while Clark may not agree with how Bruce chose to do his job, he couldn’t sit idly by and watch someone hurt him.

“What is it?” he asked, watching Bruce’s gaze drop to his mouth before returning upwards. Clark bit his lip, determined to ignore the slip.

Shifting, Bruce pressed his thigh to Clark’s leg and it was then that he realized just how close they were at the moment. At some point during their conversation, Clark had moved in close enough that Bruce’s legs were on either side of him. Clark’s hand resting on the desk, boxing Bruce in. Their faces mere inches apart, it wouldn’t take much for their lips to touch.

“Just take the offer,” Bruce said quietly, eyes wide and speculative. “It’ll help your career.”

“Why would you care?” His voice grew husky, heat coursing through his blood.

A beat.

“I don’t.”

“You’re just a generous benefactor?”

“Maybe. You’ve done your research.” He smiled, a dangerous glint in his eye. “And I didn’t say it came for free.”

Clark swallowed.

Clark’s head slammed into a shelf, doing more damage to the wood than himself. Bruce’s hands worked at Clark’s zipper, slipping a hand inside and taking hold of Clark’s cock. Panting into Bruce’s mouth, Clark narrowly avoided crushing the doorjamb. They’d slipped off to the supply closet and Clark should probably be concerned about what Lois would say when he returned but, at the moment, he found it hard to care.

Not when Bruce had stolen his tongue, his hand working quick and dirty as Clark hurried to return the favor. It was a near unbearable heat, one Clark would never be free of. Burning him up from the inside out, growing hotter with every brush of Bruce’s skin. He knew they had to be quiet, they didn’t have much time, or any time at all, and yet Clark found himself chasing those stifled moans, trying to coax out more.

He worked his hand faster, sucked greedily at Bruce’s tongue. Nipped and bit at Bruce’s throat until a clever twist brought him off with a strangled groan, shuddering against Clark. Clark followed soon after, spilling across the floor in thick ropes. Resting his forehead on Bruce’s shoulder, he tried to catch his breath, Bruce’s scent engulfing him.

“You can’t do that,” he breathed. “You can’t just show up in my office. Especially not for this.”

“I gave you an in to Wayne Enterprises.”

“You’re using me to your own advantage.” It didn’t bother Clark nearly as much as it should have. “I’m a serious reporter.”

“Your last three pieces were about a high school football game, the new director for Little League and whether or not the Gotham Knights played with underinflated footballs.”

“You’ve been paying more attention to me than I thought,” Clark replied dryly.

He pulled back to get a better look at Bruce’s face in the dim lighting. Flushed and spent, Clark was disappointed to see that he didn’t look very disheveled. Instead, he looked as though he’d simply jogged for an elevator or a cab.

“No more showing up at my office.”

The corner of Bruce’s mouth turned up as he tucked his shirt in. “Funny.” He opened the door to the closet, shooting Clark a look over his shoulder. “You think you can give me orders.”

+

Clark pulled at his bowtie for the twelfth time. Lois had picked this suit out for him. It had cost nearly half a paycheck. Why she cared, Clark would never know but he’d complied with her wishes. Let her pick out a set of new cufflinks and a blue bowtie. According to her, it was all “absolutely necessary”.

Taking a sip of champagne, he scanned the floor. Several affluent guested milled around, all talking about things Clark could only imagine. What to do with Yacht #3, whether they knew who’d shelled out for the $15,000 plate or the $50,000. Whether this was the year Bruce Wayne would finally settle down and marry. Perhaps Clark should have used this opportunity for the thick file lying dormant on his desk at home.

“Mr. Kent.”

Clark turned around and came face to face with Bruce Wayne. Dressed in a sharp black tux, he wore a blood red bowtie, his eyes glimmering in the bright lights overhead. It was near mesmerizing how he’d managed to leave Clark tongue tied and ravenous in a single instant.

He assessed Clark’s appearance rather quickly, a slight curl in the corner of his mouth. Touching his glasses, Clark found his mouth had run dry. “Nice to see you again, Mr. Wayne.”

“Is it?”

His eyes cut over Clark’s shoulder before he steered him over towards the wall. Broad and warm, his hand slid down Clark’s back, earning a small shiver. When they stopped, Bruce spared him a curious stare. Clark could feel several eyes on him, clearly curious Gothamites wondering about the nobody reporter that had managed to secure Bruce Wayne’s full and undivided attention.

“When are you going to tell me why I’m here?”

“It’s for charity. Lighten up,” he replied, scanning the crowd.

“And you paid for me. It got donated either way. I’m free to leave.”

Nonplussed, Bruce straightened his cufflinks, averting his gaze as he spoke. “And that’s why you shelled out your hard-earned money for a suit that’s almost decent.”

Blushing, Clark asked, “Almost?”

“It’s not enough to just buy the suit. You have to have it fitted.” His eyes shot up, meeting Clark’s steadily. “It doesn’t fall on your waist the way it’s supposed to.”

“Maybe you’re just paying me too much attention.”

“Doubtful.”

Clark felt that familiar pull between them and he cleared his throat. “Why am I here?”

“I may need your… assistance,” he bit the word out like it pained him. The sound of applause met their ears and he palmed Clark’s lower back, steering him towards the tables.

Flustered, Clark responded, “I can walk, you know?”

Bruce steered him towards the front. Frowning, Clark took in the faces surrounding the table. “These are the $100,000 seats, Bruce.”

“I know that,” Bruce muttered with a congenial smile for the guests already seated. He pulled out Clark’s chair for him before he sat down beside him.

Heart pounding, Clark looked to him insistently. “You spent $100,000 on this?”

“It’s a gala in my name. Don’t flatter yourself.”

“I can’t believe you.”

“Think of it as an exchange.”

Face burning, Clark’s gaze cut to the side of his face. “I am not selling myself for an overly expensive meal.”

“Not that kind of exchange,” Bruce said with a sigh. “I’m employing your services.”

“I’m not going to kill anyone.” A few of the guests turned to him in alarm. Clark smiled, giving a friendly wave. “I don’t operate that way.”

“And neither do I,” Bruce answered gravely, his voice dipping into a tone that usually went with a different kind of suit. Turning to Clark, his eyes dark, “Whatever you’ve found, I don’t cross that line. Not ever.”

“Not yet. I’m the exception, right?”

“I don’t know what you are,” he answered honestly. His eyes softened briefly before he returned to the stage. “Pay attention.”

The speaker took the mic for a few moments before the lights came down and a projector started. The presentation marked the milestones in Gotham’s history. Several of which would not have been possible without decades of generous support from the Wayne family.

As it started in on Gotham University’s long-winded history, Clark felt a hand drop to his thigh. Stiffening, he ignored it at first, focusing on the screen. As much as Clark couldn’t imagine Bruce casually shelling out the cash for this, he was rather intrigued by the presentation. The hand slid higher, higher still until it was resting over his groin. Clark’s breath caught, looking to Bruce with hooded eyes. His lips parted as Bruce started casually stroking him through his slacks.

“Bruce,” Clark swallowed, that familiar heat coursing through him. “What are you doing?”

A teasing finger played over his zipper and Clark covered a gasp, Bruce’s heart rate ticking up ever so slightly. His hand continued to work Clark through his slacks, applying more pressure as Clark started to stiffen beneath his palm. Clark pressed his lips together and tried to focus on the screen, head clouding as his blood travelled south faster than he thought possible.

Bruce unzipped his pants and deftly slid his hand inside. “I’m supposed to be working,” Clark whispered, stomach tightening. 

Bruce took hold of Clark firmly, stroking him once and sliding his thumb through the slick precome welling up from the tip. Even his hands were perfect, working Clark knowingly, focusedly until Clark hurriedly stifled a low whine. Bruce licked his lips, brow furrowed as he stared at the screen but his hand quickened, grip tightening in shorter strokes.

Clark shuddered, eyes falling shut as his head listed to the side and pressed into Bruce’s shoulder. “You should focus on the presentation.”

His hand quickened, drawing a soft gasp from Clark’s lips. His thighs spread in accommodation, breathing coming faster as he felt the tight heat coiling in his belly start to spread outwards, his hands restless in his lap. The corner of Bruce’s mouth turned up, lips parted softly as he worked. Clark could hear the clinking of cutlery on porcelain, quiet murmuring throughout the room and the click of heels in the halls. No sign anyone realized what Gotham royal, Bruce Wayne was doing to his honored guest.

Bruce twisted his wrist, eyes widening as Clark stifled a quiet moan. Shuddering, he tried to hold himself still as he felt himself slide closer to the edge, his eyes falling shut. Another twist and his hand gripped Bruce’s wrist tightly. Not enough to bruise but enough to give Bruce pause.

“Please. I’m close.” A part of him wasn’t sure what he was asking for.

Leaning in close, Bruce’s breath was warm on Clark’s ear. “Come for me.”

Biting his lip, Clark held on as much as he could, even as his grip weakened and Bruce stroked him once more. Twice, three times and then Clark came in thick ropes, wet warmth spreading along his thighs and stomach. Even knowing how much this suit had cost, Clark couldn’t stop. He pressed his face to Bruce’s shoulder and felt his cock pulse needfully, messy and hot, covering Bruce’s hand and dripping.

The audience started to applaud. Bruce panted quietly in his ear, his heart beating fast in his chest, even as his hand continued to smoothly stroke and milk Clark’s cock for all he had to give.

When he was spent, Bruce calmly picked up his napkin and cleaned his hand, leaning back as though nothing had happened. Clark tried to slow his breathing, a little dazed as he opened his eyes to the end of the presentation. He looked to Bruce who was clapping politely along with everyone else, his pants still drying in the cool air.

Bruce leaned over and murmured, “Here’s where things start to get interesting.”

The rest of the party involved a showing of rare artifacts that had been donated to the Gotham History museum. Bruce kept close to Clark as they moved through the exhibit cases. As they walked, he told the stories behind them. It was almost… nice, to tell the truth.

“Herkimer Wayne left behind a Brown Bess musket he used during the war of 1812. Doris Wayne left behind a diary of her travels throughout eastern Europe during the start of the second world war.”

He rattled these off as though he’d given this spiel several times before, never stumbling over a name or a date. It was almost awe inspiring. Particularly to Clark who still knew very little about his family history. He focused on the cases and holding his jacket very solidly over his front. He tried to look as though he wasn’t hanging on Bruce’s every word.

“You know a lot about your family.”

Bruce’s mouth twisted briefly. “The world knows a lot about my family.” His eyes cut to Clark. “See something you like?”

“Why, you planning on buying me something?”

“You know how generous I can be.”

Clark wondered if he should ask Bruce to replace the shirt he’d ruined. “Don’t I know it,” he muttered. “Why am I here, Bruce? I know you didn’t shell out that kind of dough just for – for _that_.”

Reaching out to touch the case, Bruce’s face was hard to read. “You think you know how my mind works.”

“Somewhat.” Clark touched his fingers to the glass case, his voice softening. “I think you brought me here to observe something. I just don’t know what.” Bruce’s hand landed on his shoulder and he leaned in close.

“You see that woman standing in the corner?” Clark followed his eye line, watching a beautiful brunette study an exhibit on west African artifacts. “I want you to find out everything you can on her.”

“And you need an average reporter from Metropolis to dig up dirt? Don’t you have your fancy batcomputer to do that?”

Bruce turned to face him head on, his eyes bright and honest. “I need your eyes and ears.” His mouth formed a grim line, his gaze cutting to the corner once more. “There’s something off about that woman.”

“No offense, but your judgment isn’t always spot on.” Cocking his head to the side, he offered, “Maybe she’s onto you. The same way I was.”

“And if she was? What if she decides to take me out?” he asked, focusing on Clark once more.

Clark’s stomach twisted. “What if she does?”

“You’d be okay with that?” His face became unreadable. “Isn’t that against your moral code?” He sounded as though he was simply curious of the answer and it left Clark feeling more off kilter.

“Would it be against yours?”

Bruce’s temple pulsed. “I don’t kill.”

“No, you just brand your targets and let other people do the dirty work.”

“You want to cry over a few sex traffickers and child abusers, be my guest.”

“You’re playing judge, jury and executioner!” Clark shouted, quieting the moment they drew attention.

Bruce’s face was blank, even as his breathing quickened. His body was drawn tight, poised to attack though Clark hadn’t made a single movement towards him. He was clearly warier of Clark than Clark thought he ought to be. He wasn’t used to be treated like a threat.

“It’s wrong, Bruce. You may think you’re just toeing the line, not crossing it but the day will come where you’re forced to come to terms with just how far you’ll go. You’ll learn what you’re capable of and when you do, it’ll terrify you.”

Bruce’s mouth twisted and he stepped back, his voice curt. “The same could be said for you, Kent. Have a nice night.”

Then he turned and left Clark alone in the center of the room.


	3. Chapter 3

Clark paced all night.

First, he’d changed out of his dress attire, declared the shirt a lost cause and then he’d paced all night. Back and forth, back and forth until he worried he was worrying a path in his apartment’s floor. Then he’d rose up and circled the room quietly, lost in thought.

He knew right from wrong; he’d had the concept drilled into his head from the time he was old enough to speak. However, he’d never struggled this much with it in his entire life. What the Bat was doing was wrong. Laws were put in place for a reason and everyone deserved a fair trial. Clark knew first-hand how easily one could be accused of something they hadn’t done. The Bat trampled over civil liberties and the Gotham PD didn’t seem that intent on stopping it.

Bruce was wrong. Clark knew that but, the more he paced, the more he thought back to that night, the more he realized he’d done to Bruce what had been done to him his entire life. He’d assumed the worst. He’d treated him like an inevitable problem instead of trying to understand him and turn him down the right path. Perhaps this quest to solve the mystery of the woman in red was a way into getting Bruce to truly trust him. And if Bruce trusted him, maybe he’d be more willing to listen to what Clark was saying.

There was chance Clark could stop this from escalating to something beyond his control.

_If you simply found a way to control Bruce._

Bruce had certainly managed to get under his skin. Even when Clark wasn’t with him, he was thinking about him. Even when he was cursing him, he was wondering where he was, what he was doing and who he was doing it with. He thought about him when he woke up in the morning, when he went to bed at night. When his hand found its way between his thighs in the shower.

And all because Bruce had slammed him into a wall and kissed him one night at Lex Luthor’s mansion.

_If you could use that –_

He shut that thought down as quickly as it came. Clark got ready for bed. He had a long day ahead of him tomorrow but first, he’d make a little detour.

This time around, Bruce’s assistant buzzed him right in. He’d wonder about if that was on Bruce’s orders or she simply didn’t want to hear him stutter through another poorly thought out lie. When he entered, Bruce was sitting at his desk and staring tiredly at his computer screen. When the door closed, he didn’t look up.

“I assume my assistant let you in.”

“She did.” Clark moved forward nervously, his stomach twisting into knots. “I, uh… listen, Bruce.” He wringed his hands together, the words sticking in his throat. “About last night…”

Bruce waited but, when Clark wasn’t forthcoming, he looked up with a carefully blank expression. Only now, Clark knew what to look for. Decidedly blank where Bruce’s hands were painfully still on his desk: a deceptive show of calm and a non-threatening manner. Deep down, Bruce was most likely evaluating every method he could employ to forcibly remove Clark from this room should the need arouse. And, by the looks of things, he very much expected the need to arouse.

Forcing himself forward, Clark steeled himself as he moved behind the desk. His thigh brushed the inside of Bruce’s, the contact making Bruce’s eyes widen ever so slightly. But he didn’t move away. Most likely to prove he wasn’t intimidated than comfort with Clark touching him at the moment.

“I was… not exactly wrong… but it occurred to me that I may have spoken out of turn.” Bruce’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “I don’t believe in your methods, but I can try harder to understand them. To understand why you think they’re necessary.” Bruce watched him guardedly, his mouth a thin line. “And in the meantime, I’ll help you with your problem.”

Bruce studied him for a while before nodding to himself and returning to his computer. “No need. It’s finished.”

Clark cursed himself for the brief moment in which he feared the worst. “Finished?”

“She made it clear that she isn’t after me at all.”

Clark swallowed. “Well, that’s great news.”

Bruce turned toward him again, his legs bracketing Clark in between his thighs. “Is it?” He gazed up at Clark, his face annoyingly blank. “I think a part of you was relieved. If someone else made me their mission, it’d save you the trouble of having to do something that goes against your moral code.”

Stiffening, Clark raised his chin, hesitant as he watched Bruce move in closer. His hand reached out and touched Clark’s stomach, the corner of his mouth turning up as it tightened beneath his palm. God help him, Clark didn’t understand why Bruce’s touch made his heart race this way.

“You’ve only had to kill once but you didn’t know Zod. Not really. You never spoke to him or got to know him.”

He leaned in, his eyes locked on Clark’s, his breath warm through the light cotton of Clark’s shirt. He palmed Clark’s groin brazenly, watching Clark’s lips part softly. Even in this position, Bruce held all the power.

“You never kissed him. Or touched him. Or took him into your mouth.”

Clark’s stomach twisted, arousal warring with the desperate need to keep a clear head. “What’s your point?” he rasped.

“It would have been harder to kill me.” He pulled down Clark’s zipper, taking hold of his cock. Breathing wetly over the head, he laved slowly over the slit, once more when Clark pulsed in his grip. “Right?” Clark struggled to keep his focus, watching Bruce’s hand stroke him slowly, his pink tongue swiped over the head teasingly, tasting him. Clark could barely stand to watch but he couldn’t bear to look away.

“We’ve been intimate several times,” Bruce said quietly, giving a soft suck, stroking tightly and weakening Clark’s knees. “It would have left you rather conflicted should it come down to you to stop me.”

There was a beat. A moment where time seemed to slow, Clark’s blood set aflame before he felt it turn solidly to ice. His stomach twisted violently and he veered back, pulling out of Bruce’s grip and tucking himself into his pants. He struggled to find the words.

“I can’t believe this.”

He ran a hand through his hair, his mind racing. Bruce watched silently as Clark paced a few steps and covered his mouth, feeling sick to his stomach. “I can’t believe you.” His mouth worked helplessly for a few moments before he mustered the nerve to say the words. “You slept with me as a contingency plan.”

Bruce stared at him. Then a simple, “Yes.”

Clark clenched his eyes shut, recoiling. He turned away, his voice rough. “I can’t believe you would do that.”

“Why not?” Bruce leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking. Clark turned, taking in defiant look in his eye, the wet sheen to his lip. “You thought me a killer. Is this a step above that for you? Is using sex as a weapon worse than murder?”

Clark found himself moving in closer, despite every part of him that desperately wanted to run away. To get far away from Gotham and the dark figure haunting it. “What do you think of me?” Bruce’s temple pulsed. “What do you _really_ think about me?”

“This isn’t personal.”

“It’s unbelievably personal.” He took in the tense set to Bruce’s jaw. The stiff way he held himself. “You still see me as a threat.”

“You knew that.” Bruce stood up and crossed the room. “I’ll admit my methods were… less honorable than they could have been.” He stood ramrod straight, gazing down at the city below. “But you underestimate what I’m willing to do to protect the people of New York.”

He turned, striding over to where Clark stood, curling in on himself. Reaching out, he touched Clark’s chest, watching his fingers spread out across the broad expanse. “No one knows you like I do.” Clark averted his gaze. “No one knows me like you do.”

Clark’s eyes met his. “Which is to say not at all.”

The corner of Bruce’s mouth turned up as he reached out to touch Clark’s chin. Leaning in close, his eyes locked with Clark’s, the space between them lessening in seconds. Clark stepped back unsteadily, swallowing as he fought the part of him warming at their closeness. The part of him that was clawing him from the inside, craving that feeling only Bruce could give him. The hunger he didn’t understand.

Bruce touched his chin and Clark turned away, his breathing loud in the quiet room as he closed his eyes. A calloused thumb circled his chin, turning him gently. Taking a deep breath, he considered his options. He opened his eyes to that intense stare, one he hadn’t been able to get out of his mind since the night this all started. Strong fingers stretched out along his cheek, holding him in place as Bruce studied him.

Clark’s heart beat fast in his chest, his mind racing with the many things he should have said.

Bruce gripped him tight and crushed their mouths together, swallowing every last one of them. His mouth was insistent, cloying and sweet, biting and sharp. Nipping at Clark’s lip as he opened for him and gave Bruce everything. Letting out a broken moan, Clark fell back against the desk, his hands clenching tight to the edge. There was a quiet crack and he loosened his grip, pushing into Bruce as his hands reached for Clark’s buttons.

He made quick work of Clark’s shirt, tossing it aside. He started on his own, one handed, holding tight to Clark’s chin as he took his tongue demandingly. “You like this,” he breathed, pulling his shirt off. “You like the way I touch you.” Clark’s pants came off, tossed aside as carelessly as his shirt.

He spread Clark out across his desk, his eyes eating up every inch of Clark’s body. Clark had gotten a pretty good look at Bruce that day in his bathroom. Even so, it was still astounding just how toned Bruce’s body was. His bulging biceps, the firm lines of his abs, the power in his thighs. When he planted his hand in the center of Clark’s chest, it was almost possible to pretend he could hold him there.

Clark could almost pretend that he wasn’t actively choosing to this; that he wasn’t spreading his legs and welcoming Bruce in. 

Reaching into a desk drawer, Bruce set down a bottle of lube, looking to Clark in question. Clark bit his lip, nodding once. Bruce slicked his fingers, Clark’s stomach tightening in anticipation.

Yet another first.

Bruce’s fingers were thick and dexterous, circling Clark’s entrance tentatively. Clark was sure his inexperience was written all over his face, what with the way Bruce was focused so intently on his face. Clark caught every tremor, every slight furrow of his brow, every quiet intake of breath. It made Clark feel seen in a way he never had before. He grew bolder, arching his back, spreading his legs further as the tip of Bruce’s finger dipped inside.

It was a strange feeling. Not quite painful, though it burned a little the more Bruce slipped inside. A smooth slide, the lube slicking the way. Bruce pumped his finger in slowly, breathing heavier as Clark squeezing tightly around it. When Bruce slipped the second inside, he brushed a spot deep inside, a spark of pleasure coursing through him. Gasping, Clark’s cock jerked wetly , dribbling precome along his belly. The corner of Bruce’s mouth turned up as he ran over that spot again, once more as Clark arched and let out a soft moan.

Bruce settled between his legs, his eyes softening. His fingers curled delightfully, earning a tight squeeze around his fingers. “You really like this.” It wasn’t a question but, Clark nodded in response, arcing as Bruce’s fingers brushed over that spot again. “This is all new to you.”

Clark swallowed, pushing down as Bruce slipped another finger inside. His cock was hard and aching, jerking insistently with every curl of Bruce’s fingers. Much more of this and he would come on Bruce’s fingers. But it felt so damn good, his fingers thick and wonderful, filling him up, keeping him on edge. Playing Clark like his new favorite toy, leaving him needy and restless. Clark grew greedy, his feet planted on the desk as he gave himself over, the slick, wet sounds of Bruce’s fingers pumping inside.

Bruce stroked himself, his face flushed with arousal but he kept in control of himself. He always did. Stomach tightening in anticipation, Clark’s eyes caught on the bulge in Bruce’s slacks. Gripping Bruce’s fingers as he thought about what it’d feel like to have Bruce inside of him.

As if he hadn’t already burrowed his way inside.

When Bruce withdrew his fingers and stepped out of his pants, it occurred to Clark that this may be a very bad idea.

And perhaps that was why he eagerly welcomed Bruce between his legs. Why he laid back and let Bruce line himself up, the blunt head of his cock pressed against Clark’s slick entrance.

His eyes held Clark’s, focused and searching as he slowly pushed inside. Clark’s breath caught, the slight burn nothing compared to the warmth swelling in his chest as Bruce settled over him. Eyes warming, Clark felt every single inch of Bruce’s length, his girth stretching him open and making a place for himself. When he bottomed out, his eyes fell shut for one brief moment, one second where Clark realized this was his chance to see Bruce as he really was. What was underneath the armor and masks.

This was the one time he wouldn’t be able to hide.

Clark gazed up at him, taking in the rare softness to Bruce’s face, his lips parted in pleasure. Bruce withdrew, his stomach tightening before he pushed in deep, filling Clark to the brim. Gasping, Clark’s heart beat faster as he shivered, the cool surface of the desk against his flushed skin. Heat pooled in his center, clinging tightly, greedily to Bruce’s length. It drew a small groan from Bruce’s lips before he stifled it, biting down on his lip.

Clark liked that sound, chasing more of them as he rocked down in time with Bruce’s thrusts. Brown eyes met his, the stark hunger in them stoking the fire in Clark’s belly. There was the hunter Clark had spent months chasing.

Clamping down around Bruce’s cock, satisfaction burned in his blood as Bruce grew rougher, more careless, his hips snapping forward brutally. Strong hands held tight to Clark’s hips, tugging him down needfully with every thrust. Fast, quick and dirty, pounding inside of Clark like he was born to take Bruce inside of him. Like he’d found a new purpose.

The room filled with the sounds of skin slapping against skin, the creak of the desk beneath them and their hushed breaths, stifled curses. Bruce took hold of Clark’s length, stroking him as he pushed in deep. Crying out, Clark felt the heat in his center reach a fever pitch, toes curling as he wrapped his legs around Bruce’s back. Bruce’s eyes widened, softening briefly before he averted his gaze and snapped his hips forward with more power.

That wouldn’t do: Clark wanted to see his face. He wanted Bruce to look at him. Curling upward, he cupped Bruce’s face and crushed their mouths together. Bruce’s mouth fell open, searching and hungry as he devouring Clark, nipping and biting at his lips. His hips drove forward hard enough that every thrust left Clark breathless. He was quickly lost in it, burying his face in Bruce’s neck and breathing in his scent. Bruce rutted against him mindlessly, some of that painstaking control straying to fray at the edges.

He buried himself in deep with a stifled curse as Clark cried out and spilled messily between them. Waves of pleasure crashed over him, his arms wrapped around Bruce’s neck as he shook and clamped down around his cock. Shuddering, Bruce let out a low groan and bucked against him. Between one curse and the next, he felt Bruce pulse and spill inside of him.

Clark pulled back, watching avidly as Bruce’s face went lax, lips parting as his lashes fanned out over his cheeks. The sight made Clark’s chest tighten with a feeling he shut down immediately, leaning in to kiss Bruce’s throat. He pumped Clark messy and full, pushing in slowly, his breathing calming.

His hand touched Clark’s hip almost hesitantly, sighing as he spilled more inside. Finally, he pulled back with a curse. “I’m late for a meeting.”

Clark’s stomach twisted as he nodded, averting his eyes. He pulled out carefully, eyes falling to Clark’s entrance with interest before he stopped himself and set about finding his clothes. Clark lay back and watched him, waiting for Bruce to tell him to leave. He was ridiculously late for work anyway.

Watching Bruce put on his suit was only moderately different from watching him put on his armor. He dressed methodically, his face slipping into that familiar mask. He tucked his shirt in neatly, eyes focused on the wall as he looped his tie around his neck. He pulled on his jacket, tugging on his cuffs and, just like that, he was all put together again.

Clark lay on his desk, naked and covered in sweat and come. Bruce turned to face him, Clark tensed, expecting the words to come: the hasty farewell or the not so subtle invitation to leave. Instead, Bruce strode over smoothly, rest his hand on the desk and dropped and kiss to Clark’s lips.

It felt a lot like losing.

+

It didn’t happen often.

Clark certainly didn’t seek him out. He went about his days the way he always had. He went to work. He had lunch with Lois. He saved the world. He went home to his apartment. Some days it was empty. Some days it wasn’t.

Bruce never stayed long. They never really talked outside of casual digs. They weren’t lovers. They certainly weren’t partners. They weren’t friends. Clark didn’t have a name for what this was other than ill-advised.

They never met the people in each other’s lives, short of Bruce’s assistant who’d taken to looking at Clark like she knew damn well why he was in Bruce’s office and why they never left the door open. Bruce had teased him once: opening the door to his office after and sliding his hand down the back of Clark’s trousers. Swollen and loose, Clark was still dripping with his release, hurrying to stifle his gasp when Bruce’s fingers dipped inside.

Lois had stopped asking why his clothes were always wrinkled. Offering no more than a raised eyebrow at every one of his excuses. But Clark was relaxed, his body too well worn for him to care much what others thought. He wasn’t happy; he wouldn’t use that word. But he’d found a new vice; an outlet for his frustrations. And he didn’t want to give it up.

He’d resumed his investigation into the Bat. To his relief, and perhaps Bruce’s unawareness, the brands had stopped. Or at least, they weren’t making the papers the way they used to. A curious development Clark was currently looking into. When he found the time, of course.

Perhaps Bruce had intended this as a hindrance for Clark. He clearly hadn’t anticipated it having a similar effect on his own work.

One night, he stopped a robbery not far from his apartment and helped a nervous gunman avoid a murder charge. There were three forest fires and a bridge collapse in Ecuador. He’d arrived back in Metropolis too late to go back to bed and too early to get ready for work.

So, he stood out on a rooftop and watched the sun rise.

There was a whipping sound and a figure settled beside him.

“Visiting?” Clark asked, a smile in the corner of his mouth.

“I came to see the sights,” Bruce responded gruffly. He gazed out over the city, the scent of leather in Clark’s nose. It was near starling how familiar Bruce’s presence had become. “Isn’t it a little early for you to be searching for lost puppy dogs?”

Clark’s smile widened. “Isn’t it a little late for you to be out? I thought you’d turn to ash if the sunlight touched your skin.”

“Cute.”

Bruce turned to him, studying him for a moment. That familiar look in his eye, the intent as he moved closer purposefully. Clark’s stomach tightened in anticipation, heat pooling in his center. Bruce moved like a predator, poised to have Clark right here on this rooftop. Bruce crowded him in against the brick wall, the sun bathing him in shades of gold and crimson.

All of that tireless focus, firmly centered on Clark as he backed into the wall, his breath catching. There was a look in Bruce’s eye, a strategy. One that Clark could only imagine. For a moment, for an instant, in the time it took for Bruce to press against him, a broad hand on his stomach, in that moment, Clark realized something new about the man before him.

Bruce needed this just as much as Clark did.

As he pulled impatiently at Clark’s uniform, as he tugged off his cowl and bit at Clark’s throat, as he rolled his hips against Clark’s needfully. He took hold of Clark demandingly, bit and sucked at his mouth greedily, the fire in his eyes fiercely possessive. He kissed to claim and Clark responded in kind. With acceptance.

Clark was making a mistake.

He was losing control.

Bruce bit at his lip, his hard cock pressing against Clark’s stomach insistently. Groaning, Clark’s eyes fell closed as he rocked against him. Chasing his tongue, Bruce stripped him down until there was nothing between them.

+

Clark walked home in a downpour, a tub of ice cream in hand.

After work, he’d dropped by the corner store for some ice cream. He wondered if he’d find Bruce there but, if the man was anything, he was unpredictable. He never called or gave any prior notice when he planned to drop by. In return, Clark made a habit of dropping by his office unannounced.

He’d just turned down his block when a low grunt of pain turned his blood to ice. A quiet curse, a rattling gasp for air followed by the sound of ribs grinding against each other. It certainly wasn’t the first time Clark had heard someone in pain, but he recognized that voice. He shot into the air before he’d even registered that he’d moved.

He was in Gotham in seconds, dropping down in an alleyway where he came face to face with a man hovering over a dark shadow. Rain poured down around them in a poor attempt to wash everything clean. Clark approached hesitantly, his eyes cutting to Bruce huddled on the ground. Returning to the man before him, rage burned through his blood as he took in the black suit and mask.

His hands clenched into fists. “I don’t know who you are, but you want to get out of here,” Clark said slowly.

The man studied Clark curiously before returning to Bruce. When they made to touch him, Clark grabbed their wrist tightly, wrenching it back sharply.

The masked man let out a shout, veering back in an impressive feat of acrobatics. Planting their feet on his chest, they pushed off and landed a few feet away. They waited, watching Bruce silently when Bruce curled his arm over his side, letting out a pained groan.

“Go,” he grumbled.

The man stared for a moment longer before cursing and disappearing into the night. Clark was at Bruce’s side in an instant, wrapping his arms around him. He tried to help Bruce to his feet, trying to find a secure grip around the slippery mass of leather and Kevlar. He fought Clark at first, trying to stand on his own before ultimately ending up on the ground once more. He smelled of blood, Clark’s stomach twisting as he realized his hands must be drenched in it, warm beneath Bruce’s body and the chill of the rainwater.

Finally, Clark hoisted Bruce into his arms. He was wary of jostling him but more worried that they didn’t have much time. Bruce’s breathing was loud in his ear, his pulse sporadic and thready. Grimacing, Clark started towards the nearest hospital when Bruce touched his face, his gloves sliding off, leaving wet smears and the scent of copper.

“No hospital.”

“Yes, hospital. You’ve lost a lot of blood.”

“No hospital,” Bruce said firmly, his focus drifting as he paled considerably.

“Bruce, you’re not thinking clearly.”

“November 12th, 2016. We’re in Gotham. I know your name. I know my name. I am of clear mind and body and I am telling you that if you drop me off at a hospital, I will hunt you down the second I get out.”

“At least you’ll be alive,” Clark bit out, wincing as Bruce’s grip tightening on his shoulders. Not because it was painful, but because it was nothing compared to Bruce’s usual strength. “Bruce— “

“Take me home.”

A beat. “What?”

“Take me home.”

“You’d let me see where you live?”

“You know where the mansion is,” he said weakly, his hand curling protectively around his middle.

“Yes, but I’m assuming your evil lair isn’t hiding in plain sight.”

Bruce grimaced, “You’d be surprised.”

The moment his feet touched the ground, Bruce tried to push out of Clark’s arms. He failed, stumbling on weak legs and cursing as Clark helped him up. He helped Bruce to a doorway hidden in trees and down a ramp into a sewer grate. They moved through as quickly as Clark could manage. His costume was now soaked in blood, the sticky feel of it leading Clark to wonder if Bruce was hanging on by sheer force of will.

They arrived at a gate where Bruce pulled off a glove with his teeth and touched his hand to a pad. There was a retina scan he needed to stand upright for. He tried, biting down a pained grunt as his legs gave out. Clark held him close, watching his head start to loll. He took hold of Bruce’s chin and held him up, heart pounding as the gate finally opened and they entered a dark cave.

Clark’s blood chilled at the sound of wings overhead. He got the sense that he was moving further from sunlight than he’d ever been before. It was cooler down here, the sounds of the city fading into a startling quiet where Clark could hear nothing but the sounds of their heartbeats and the unknown creatures circling overhead. It was hard to remember that this was still a part of their world.

They approached an opening when Bruce fell still, growing lax in Clark’s arms as he moved. Clark held him tighter, pushing past the tightness in his chest as he moved through the space. Passing a sleek black car on a spinning platform, a computer bay with several screens. A shower stall in one corner. A weight bench, a large tire and several sets of chains. A shelf weighed down with several different weapons. A box with some sort of stone inside of it.

Clark gazed around the space in panic when he heard the sound of expensive shoes hurrying towards them. A grizzled older man came into view, a worried twist to his mouth. If he was surprised to see Clark, he didn’t let it show. He gestured to a small bed in the back of the room and said, “Bring him here.”

Clark carried Bruce over and laid him down carefully, his nerves ratcheting higher as he took in Bruce’s slack face, the loss of color.

“Now you’ve done it,” the man muttered rolling up his sleeves.

Touching his fingers to Bruce’s neck, he studied his watch and cursed. He started removing the armor, which, at least, Clark could help with. Together, they stripped Bruce down in minutes. Bare, Clark was able to get a better look at the extent of Bruce’s injuries and the sight made bile rise in his throat.

Bruce looked like one giant bruise, his left thigh covered in mottled skin. It was nothing compared to the sickening discoloration of his left side. Clark didn’t need x-ray vision to know they were dealing with several broken ribs and a fractured hip. He did look to make sure Bruce didn’t have a punctured lung.

The older man pulled a tablet over, scanning Bruce and coming to the same conclusion. He set the tablet down with a quiet, “It’s always worse than it looks.”

It took a moment for Clark to realize he was being spoken to. “Is it?” The older man turned Bruce carefully to get a better look at his back. Clark could only imagine what damage was hiding there. “How long has he been doing this?”

“Long enough to shorten both our lifespans.”

He bustled around the small cabinets behind them and opened a small fridge and pulled out a blood bag. Clark could see several inside and he wondered where they had come from, if this man was some sort of doctor. He hung one of the bags and slid a needle into Bruce’s arm so smoothly it was clear he had done this before. He retrieved a suture kit and pulled back the waistband on Bruce’s underwear.

This was where the blood had come from. Bruce had taken several hits to his left side, blocking them with his thigh plates and left arm. Somewhere in that time, he’d been stabbed. The blade had broken off inside of him and the only reason he hadn’t bled out sooner was due to the broken piece of steel stemming the blood flow. Grimacing, the man took hold of the jagged piece.

His brow furrowed, his tone fraught with worry. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to fix the damage in time.”

His words drew Clark’s attention away from Bruce for a second. Blinking at him, he processed what the man had said and nodded, moving in closer. The smell of blood threatened to overwhelm him, his stomach twisting violently. He knew the stench of death and he knew enough to know Bruce hadn’t given up the ghost yet. But Clark couldn’t shake the sense that he was watching Bruce die. How much damage could the human body take before it shut down completely? How much blood could Bruce stand to lose?

“I can do it,” Clark heard himself say. The man looked to him in question. “It won’t be pretty but I’ll be fast.” He straightened his spine, his hands shaking nervous at his side. “You know I will.”

Clearly conflicted, the man studied him for a moment. He then looked to Bruce and Clark realized this must have been the man he’d heard over Bruce’s comm system that night. They were close but Clark couldn’t say how close. An adoptive father? A family doctor? He must stay here often if Bruce knew he’d be here this late at night.

Finally, he nodded, passing the needle over to Clark. “Hurry.”

Steeling himself, Clark took a few deep breaths. Then he took hold of the piece and pulled it out, the blood welling up in seconds as Clark set about sewing up the wound. From what he could see, it hadn’t ticked anything important. Bruce had lucked out, so to speak. As lucky as one could get considering he’d lost several pints of blood.

When Clark finished suturing, his hands were covered in blood and he’d made a mess of the workstation. The older man had watched silently, moving in to examine them. “Well done,” he said quietly.

His nose wrinkled as he grabbed a swab, cleaned the area, covered the stitches and set about wrapping Bruce’s chest. He moved methodically, as though he’d done this several times before. His brow furrowed, mouth a worried line but his hands steady as ever.

By the looks of things, Bruce should be out for the next month. Knowing him, he would only rest a week, if that.

“What happened?” The man asked as he checked Bruce for more injuries.

“I don’t know exactly. When I showed up, the man that did this took off.” A beat. “Bruce told him to go.”

It gave the older man pause before he set about cleaning a nasty gash on Bruce’s shoulder. “What did he look like? This man?”

“Young, best I could tell. He was wearing a mask. Dressed in black with a blue stripe along his chest.” The older man nodded silently. “What is it? Do you know them?”

“You could say that.” He turned to a cabinet and retrieved a pair of sweats and a loose button down. “That man didn’t do this, Mr. – Superman.” Clark blinked at him as he started dressing Bruce carefully.

“How are you so sure?”

“Because, should the mood strike that particular fellow to kill Bruce, he would have done it. And he would have done it long ago,” he added, a glimmer of a smile on his face. Pulling up a stool, he ran a tired hand through his hair. “Which means, whoever did this, not only wanted to hurt Bruce, they wanted to be seen doing it.”

Frowning, he lifted Bruce’s arm and turned his wrist. What they found on the inside made Clark’s blood boil. Looking to the older man, he said firmly, “I didn’t do this.”

“I should hardly think you would sign your handy work,” he replied, tracing the symbol burned into Bruce’s skin.

+

The older man, Alfred, offered Clark a bed in the manor but Clark politely refused. Instead, he wanted to stay here so that when Bruce woke up, Clark could make sure Bruce knew he hadn’t done this.

It wasn’t often that Clark found himself truly exhausted. That fatigue that went bone deep, every breath a struggle to stay alert. Every time he looked at Bruce, he saw that brand, the symbol of his home world seared into Bruce’s skin. He didn’t understand who had done this and why. Why they’d used his family’s crest to do it.

More than that, he didn’t understand how Bruce was still breathing. He’d lost a significant amount of blood and suffered a pretty brutal beating beforehand. It was a wonder he’d stayed conscious long enough to argue with Clark about taking him to a hospital. Now, he appeared stable. At least, judging by the monitors Alfred had monitoring his vital signs.

He still hadn’t woken up and it was starting to worry Clark. He could hear his heart beating, steady and stronger than it had been earlier. Even so, Clark worried about what would happen if he left here. If he would listen in and find that it had simply stopped between one breath and the next.

This man that had, and very still might, view him as a threat. An unchecked and powerful liability. This man that had used sex as a means to manipulate him. This man who, despite all of that, had wormed his way into Clark’s heart.

This man Clark had come to care for.

When Bruce awoke, Clark was asleep in a chair at his bedside. Bruce grumbled, his eyes opening sluggishly as he tried to sit up. A pained grunt escaped as Clark rushed forward to push him back down with gentle hands. Bruce’s eyes widened at the sight of him, scanning the cave before returning to Clark, his eyes wide and wary.

“Relax, relax,” Clark murmured. Bruce was breathing heavily, his heart racing. “You let me in. Remember?” Bruce stared at him silently. “I guess not. Look, I just wanted to make sure you were okay. And that you knew I didn’t do this.”

Bruce blinked at him, his eyes narrowing. “Why would I think you had?”

Clark took a deep breath and touched Bruce’s wrist. He pulled his arm up, blanching at the brand on his skin. “Bruce, you have to know I would never— “

“Not your style.” Grimacing, he turned to drop his feet onto the floor. “It’s mine.”

“What do you mean?”

“I think I know who did this.”

“You remembered something?”

Bruce shook his head, climbing unsteadily to his feet. Clark hurried to help, touching his side as gently as he could. Bruce’s breathing grew heavier, his mouth a thin line as he tried to stand. “Contractor. Whoever it was, they were fast. Got me alone in an alley deserted enough that no one would be there to ID them. And close enough to Blüdhaven that –“ he cut himself off, looking to Clark distractedly. His eyes were too big for his face, his skin ashen and cool to the touch.

Clark gently pushed him back on the bed. “You plan on letting me in on your little secret?”

“Not yet. Better if you don’t know.”

“What do you mean? Some maniac framed me for this. I think I have a right to know who has it out for me.”

“And if I tell you, what will you do? Go rough them up? Try to convince them to turn themselves in with your down-home charm and baby blues?” he asked mockingly, his temple pulsing.

“If it gets them to explain this, why not?”

“There’s something bigger at work here. Bigger than you and certainly bigger than me.” He steeled himself and then rose up on his feet once more, ignoring Clark’s attempt to help. He stopped at the bottom of the stairs, glaring up at them as though they’d wronged him in some way. “Whoever did this wanted to turn me against you.”

“Rather pointless, isn’t it?” Clark asked, slipping Bruce’s arm over his shoulders and helping him up the stairs. He took as much of Bruce’s weight as he could get away with. “You’re not my biggest fan.”

“If I’m right, the person that arranged this knew that.” He stopped, looking to Clark head on. “They also knew that you hated my brands.”

“So?”

“Clark Kent hates my brands. Not Superman.” Clark froze, his eyes going wide. “Whoever did this knows your secret.” Bruce pulled out of Clark’s arms and moved up the rest of the stairs, his arm curled around his stomach.

Clark followed Bruce into the hall where he shut himself inside his bedroom. Clark didn’t really know what to do with himself. Alfred had given him some of Bruce’s clothes to wear earlier and kindly took the clothes Clark arrived in to wash. Clark didn’t have the heart to tell them he was sure they were lost causes. But, Clark didn’t have the most extensive wardrobe and he’d salvage them if he could.

After the washer started, Clark wandered the manor. There was a haunted silence. Even Clark’s footsteps, surefooted and light, sounded loud on the hardwood floors. There were no cobwebs lining the rafters, though each room felt as though it hadn’t been inhabited in quite some time. Clark wondered how much fun it must have been playing hide and seek in a place like this. There were three libraries, two offices lined with mahogany shelves with large, ornate desks in the center. There were more closets than Clark could count and most of them were empty. He came to the sitting room where he found himself captivated by the large portrait above the fireplace. 

A tall man with a thick mustache and a beautiful brunette stood on either side of a small boy. Polite smiles on their faces, as was typical of family portraits. Even so, there was such a light in their eyes that was impossible to miss. It was hard to reconcile the boy in the picture with the man he had come to know.

This was a room Bruce didn’t enter often, Clark could tell. Although, to be honest, Clark doubted he used half of the rooms in the manor. This was the only room in which Clark found photos of the Wayne family. Moving in closer, Clark got a better look at the smaller frames lining the mantle. He didn’t see any of Bruce with a young boy but there was a photo of him beside a young man. One with long dark hair, some of which fell in his eyes. Bruce’s arm draped over his shoulder with what Clark would be hesitant to call a smile but, it certainly wasn’t his usual frown.

Still, there was a lightness to his face that Clark had never seen.

“Would you like a copy, Superman?” Alfred asked, startling Clark.

It wasn’t often that someone managed to sneak up on him. Alfred entered the room quietly, stopping beside Clark. He was a tall fellow, though certainly shorter than Clark and Bruce.

“You can call me Clark,” Clark replied with a smile. “I’m sure he’s told you about me.”

“There’s no harm in acknowledging simple requests for privacy. If you’d like me to pretend your glasses are a proper disguise, I will abide by that.” He handed Clark a cup of tea with an amused glint in his eye. “Do me a favor and don’t ask me to.”

Clark took the cup gratefully. “It’s strange… I never really pictured Bruce with a family.”

Sipping his tea, Clark studied the portrait once more. There was something similar about the way Thomas Wayne rested his hand on Bruce’s shoulder and the way Bruce draped his arm around the man in the photo below. But that man had to be in his early twenties at the least. There was no way he was the same boy seen being carried from that building years ago.

Was it possible that Bruce had two children? Clark hadn't thought to check for an older boy. Records on Bruce Wayne abruptly dropped off for a decade or so before that article in 1999. It was possible Clark had missed something.

“I’d say those were simpler times but, that wouldn’t be entirely true,” Alfred said, staring up at the portrait. His tone was somber, in keeping with the quiet found throughout the rest of the manor. It was hard to imagine the halls filled with the sounds of tiny feet and laughter. Even harder to imagine Bruce chasing small children through them. “Gotham has never been what you’d call peaceful.”

“I can believe that.” Taking another sip, Clark hid a smile. “It’s hard to believe any place was truly peaceful. My friend Lois likes to razz me for coming from a small town but, we had our share of problems. We didn’t’ make a fuss about it. Took care of most of them ourselves. We couldn’t always trust the big city cops to come help us when we found trouble too big for our small sheriff’s office to deal with so… we looked out for our own.”

“And what of your other home?” Alfred asked quietly. “Do you remember much of it?”

“Not a thing. I came here when I was a baby. Ma and Pa are the only parents I’ve ever known.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Clark said with a smile. “They gave me the best life I could have asked for. I’m grateful to them for so much.” Gazing up at Bruce’s face in the portrait, the light in his eyes, a chill washed over him and his eyes grew warm. “What was he like? Before?”

The corner of Alfred’s mouth twitched before he pursed his lips, his posture perfect as ever. “He was not a precocious child, if that’s what you’re asking. He was curious, a nosy little thing. Active. Flitting from one hobby to the next but only after mastering the first. Brilliant. Too brilliant for his own good.” Clearing his throat, he averted his eyes. “And, as all good children must, he grew up.”

Clark thought he’d been wrong about this man’s role in Bruce’s life but, he hadn’t been. Not really. “He’s your son.”

Alfred’s brow furrowed, “In a manner of speaking, yes.” He turned to face Clark head on, his face grave. Clark’s heard leapt in his throat at the subtle threat he found there. “So, you understand why I must ask you what you’re doing here.”

Stomach twisting, Clark replied, “I found him in that alleyway.” Alfred’s expression did not change. “I brought him here because he asked.”

“Why bother? Why care? I know what he’s been doing with you.” Clark blushed but he didn’t shy away. “I know what he’s been considering. By all accounts, you would have been well within your rights, better off, even, to simply leave him there and let nature take its course.”

Clark blanched, veering back and covering his mouth. “I could never do that.”

“Because it’s against your code?”

“Because it’s wrong,” Clark said asserted, setting the cup down hard enough that it shattered into pieces. “What is it with you two? Murder is wrong. Leaving people to die is wrong. Doing _nothing_ when you can do something is _wrong_.” His breathing quickened, eyes welling up as he heard the violent gust of wind and stared into his father’s eyes. They’d never seemed so old.

The fire crackled as he shook the image away, focusing on Alfred who was now watching Clark more intently than ever. “My goodness,” he whispered, pulling his glasses off. He busied himself cleaning them with a cloth he’d fetched from his pocket. He appeared rather shaken. “It’s finally happened.”

“What?”

Alfred replaced the lenses and started towards the doorway. “The time will come when he will push you past your breaking point. Or simply push you away. Either you’ll remain in this house or you’ll become a fixture on the mantle.” Tapping his fingers on the doorjamb, he chose his words carefully. “I do hope it’s the former.”

+

Alfred had given him a room for the night – or early, early morning, rather. One of the bedrooms down the hall from Bruce’s. He must keep busy keeping all of these rooms tidy for the guests that never stayed. Clark was thankful for the hospitality. Even as he tossed and turned, finding it near impossible to sleep.

Finally, he climbed out of bed and made his way to Bruce’s room. He’d expected to find the man asleep but, instead, he was reading through a rather thick tome in Arabic. Upon hearing the door open, some of the tension left his face. A surefire sign he was hiding how much pain he was in.

“You’re still here?”

“Is that a problem?” Clark asked, coming in to stand beside the bed.

If Bruce hadn’t been lying here with a book, Clark would have no way of knowing this was his bedroom. There were no pictures here, no cufflinks or a watch on the bedside table. No water rings from a late-night glass of water or even a few coins from where Bruce had emptied his pockets. Clean, pristine and devoid of any and all signs that anyone slept here.

Bruce finished the line he was reading before closing the book on his finger. “Have you concluded your investigation?”

“Not exactly.” Crossing his arms, Clark took in the bandages peeking out from the lapels of Bruce’s button down. “How are you feeling?” Bruce stared at him blandly. “Right. You’re not dying, are you?”

“Not at the moment,” he replied, opening the book once more.

Clark watched him for a moment before sitting down on the edge of the bed. Were they lovers, he would be able to offer a comforting touch, maybe even a kiss. Just a simple press of the lips. Nothing special; nothing intended to lead anywhere. Were they a couple, his every inquiry wouldn’t be met with derision. He could ask Bruce a simple a question, he could ask how he was feeling and get an honest answer.

But Clark had no such illusions; they weren’t a couple.

Clark watched from a distance, scanning Bruce furtively to make sure he hadn’t missed any injuries. He’d sent Lois a picture of the young man with Bruce on the mantle. He’d asked Alfred what Bruce needed to get back to full strength. If he’d asked Bruce any of these things, he knew very well he would be unlikely to get a straight answer.

Whatever had transpired between them, they were still two men who didn’t trust each other.

“Kent?” Bruce asked, rather annoyed. By the sound of things, he’d been calling Clark for quite some time. Clark looked to him in question. “I said, if you’re not planning on doing something useful with your day, you might as well use your time wisely.”

“Meaning?”

“Alfred is starting on breakfast. I’m sure you have more questions for him.”

Clark’s eyes widened. “You’re giving me carte blanche to interrogate your butler?”

“Interrogate is a strong word.” He turned the page, his tongue poking out between his lips. “This way, I don’t have to put up with your poor attempts at coy conversation starters at breakfast.”

Hiding a smile, Clark felt warmth bloom in his chest. “I’m staying for breakfast?”

Bruce stiffed, his temple pulsing before he muttered, ‘Your clothes drying.”

“And this is your assurance that I won’t walk out with your old sweats?” If he was honest, a part him kept coming back to the fact that he was wearing Bruce’s clothes. And god help him, the shirt was a little big on him, the pants a little too long.

“I’m willing to bet they cost more than a month’s rent.”

Clark glared at him lightly, the corner of his mouth turned up bemusedly. “I’m willing to pretend this is your socially backwards way of asking me to join you.”

“Whatever makes you feel better.” He turned the page, focusing a little too intently for a book he’d been flying through earlier. Finally, “You’re still staring at me.”

Clark left the room with a smile.

Alfred steadfastly refused to accept any help in the kitchen until he realized that Clark could be quite stubborn. Then, he graciously allowed Clark to chop the fruit while he set to work preparing the omelets. Clark watched him search the cupboards and push aside a jar of blackberry jam to gather sugar and start the coffee.

Clark couldn’t get much out of Alfred. Instead, he spent the time grilling Clark about his life.

“I’m sure Bruce can tell you more about my past than I can,” Clark said, setting up the cutting board.

“Bruce can tell me useless things like your GPA and primary school teachers,” he said passively. What did it say about Clark that such a statement didn’t make him set down the knife and flee? “He can’t tell me about your parents or why you continue to stay here.”

Clark studied the relaxed set to his shoulders before nodding and returning to his work. “Not much to tell. I grew up on a small farm. My parents didn’t have much but they did their best. I was certainly a handful.” They shared a small smile. “Lifted our tractor over my head by the time I was four.”

Shaking his head, Alfred whisked the bowl of eggs with a thoughtful look on his face. “It can’t have been easy raising a child with extraordinary abilities.”

“They never complained.” He started in on the cantaloupe. “They hid me as best they could. Taught me to control my strength. How to keep from hurting others. How to be ordinary when I was anything but.”

“They gave you a moral compass,” Alfred said gently.

Clark tensed. “You sound like him.”

“On the contrary,” he spread oil in the hot skillet, “I believe you don’t have to be born here to understand men. In fact, I think it might be beneficial that you weren’t. You don’t just see things as they are – you see them as they could be. As they _should_ be. And you are proof that good can be taught.”

“You believe that?” he asked roughly. “That I’m good?”

“I believe what I can see.” He poured in the eggs, his eyes focused on the skillet. “How is it we’re just now hearing about you? Everything else is stories buried in the back of a small-town newspaper. Amidst the annual bake sales and winter pageants. That Zod fellow, he arrived and it was all over television within minutes. What does that tell you?”

“We are truly living in the digital age.”

Alfred laughed, a sound that surprised even him for a moment before he replied. “No. It tells me that you’ve tried very hard to say hidden. And those stories were all about miracles. Saving children from bus accidents and small villages from floods and hurricanes. You’ve used your incredible gifts to save lives; not take them.”

Swallowing, Clark averted his eyes. “Bruce doesn’t see things the way you do.”

Alfred cleared his throat, turning the fire down. “No, he does not.”

“He doesn’t trust me,” Clark shared quietly.

The skillet sizzled quietly, the sound of the coffee maker loud in the quiet room. Alfred set the spatula down, his hand on his hip. It was a while before he spoke, his voice grave. “What you have to understand, Mr. Kent, is that it isn’t just about trust.” He gazed up at the solid black backsplash, lost in thought. “It’s more that Bruce sees you and he can’t help but think about how different… how much better his life would be would be if he could do what you can do. How many people would still be – “

“Alfred,” Bruce said sharply, leaning heavily against the doorjamb.

Thunderous and fuming, his nostrils flaring as he tried stubbornly to keep his breathing under control. Clark’s breath caught, looking from Alfred to Bruce in concern. Clark had seen Bruce put himself away, his face devoid of any real expression. He’d seen Bruce annoyed, he’d seen him angry. He’d never seen Bruce quite this upset before: his eyes flashing, his mouth a thin line as he kept his voice deceptively low.

“Mr. Kent, I think you’ve overstayed your welcome.” The words were directed at Clark, though his eyes never left Alfred.

Rather nonplussed, Alfred, slid one perfect omelet over to a plate and turned the burner off. “Bruce, don’t you think you’re being more than a bit rude?”

“Kent, the hallway. Now.”

“My clothes— “

“Alfred will ensure they find their way back in your possession. He’ll even press them. You’re welcome to wear mine home.” His temple pulsed as Alfred met his stare almost serenely.

Clark watched silently, his chest tightening. “Bruce, can we talk about this?”

“Alfred will show you out,” Bruce said finally, turning away and starting back down the dark hallway.

Thoughtlessly, Clark rushed forward and grabbed his wrist. It was entirely the wrong thing to do and Bruce veered back almost faster than Clark could follow in his anxious state. Countering with a glancing blow to Clark’s shoulder, he wrenched his side and Clark heard the tear before he smelled the blood.

Slamming into the wall with a thud, his hand pressed to side as Clark leaned in hurriedly. “Alfred!” Clark shouted, trying to take over holding pressure as Bruce fought him weakly. His face sallow and drawn, his eyes haunted as he tried to keep Clark at bay as best he could. It almost hurt more than the easy way he’d dismissed Clark from his home. “Let me help you.”

Alfred appeared at his side, med kit in hand. Cursing, he pulled the shirt off of Bruce’s shoulders and grabbed the gauze. “I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Kent, but it seems our breakfast will have to be postponed.”

Clark stepped back shakily, watching concernedly as Alfred set about patching Bruce up. Bruce never took his eyes off of Clark for a second. Not until the front door closed behind him. And even then, Clark felt as though he was still being watched.


	4. Chapter 4

A month passed.

During which, Clark stayed far away from Gotham. Too afraid to call and certain it wouldn’t be welcome. In a desperate hour, he’d sent a letter. Rather old fashioned but it was easier to pretend Bruce hadn’t responded because it had gotten lost in the mail. Not because he was so furious with Clark that he’d finished with him completely.

Clark couldn’t stop thinking about that look in Bruce’s eye. The closest he’d ever been to honest: and it was all rage. Peeling back the mask and finding the true depths of Bruce’s soul. The man capable of branding his symbol into another’s skin. The man that looked at Clark as someone to stop; someone to kill.

That look in his eye said more than every article Clark had managed to find in the past six months.

Now, Clark spent his nights awake with no real reason to be. He spent his days thinking about more sleepless nights. And when he closed his eyes, he dreamed of Zod. He was tense, quicker to anger. His Ma knew something was up. Lois had taken to treating him with kid gloves. Most disconcerting of all was realizing just how much free time he had now that he wasn’t listening for the sound of heavy boots on his balcony. Chasing shadows across rooftops in the night.

He’d finished the stories he’d had on the backburner. Cleaned his apartment twice over. He volunteered. Helped his Ma remodel the guest room. He’d even helped Lois move. He buried his files on the Bat far in the bottom of his desk drawer next to the files he’d printed on Luthor Corp and the bottle of brandy he’d received his first day on the job.

That night, he found himself buried in a “conspiracy” regarding the latest DUI arrest for one of the Star City Rockets’ short stops. He’d stayed late at the Planet, his tie loosened as he spread his work out across the desk.

Everyone else had left. Lois was the last to go, a bottle of wine in hand as she celebrated her latest success. A front-page headline on the corrupt dealings that got the new Metropolis stadium built in record time. The kind of story that usually took months to crack. And it had, come to think of it. Clark had been too wrapped up Batman to pay attention. He’d congratulated her and smiled past the pitying look on her face.

All this to say, he was alone when his phone rang. He picked up without looking at the caller ID.

“Kent.”

In a burst of sound, chattering voices, silverware and plates clattering together in his ear. A voice came in, clear and clipped, a well-spoken man. He sounded rather young, although he exuded the confidence Clark usually associated with older men.

“Mr. Kent? This is Richard Grayson.” Clark sat up straighter. He’d forgotten about the search for the man in the picture. “You left me a message about a month ago? Things got kind of busy and I’m finally getting back to you. Sorry about that. Can you meet me tonight? Say Angie’s Diner on 42 nd ?”

Clark checked his watch. It was nearly 4am. Either this kid worked the late shift or he was out this late every night. He didn’t sound the slightest bit tired.

What the hell? It wasn’t like Clark was going to get any sleep tonight anyway.

Angie’s diner was rather full for the late hour. It was closer to the edge of Blüdhaven than Clark had ever been before. The patrons weren’t all that different from the usual Gotham crowd. A group of men in the back getting ready to start their work on the new Gotham City Bank building. A few women in the back with scrubs on. One man in the corner staring tiredly into his coffee mug as two small children climbed over the booths and made faces at each other.

There was something about Gotham that just seeped into the veins of its citizens.

Richard Grayson wasn’t a Gotham native.

However, he was the young man Clark had seen in the photo. When he caught sight of Clark, he smiled, waving a hand cheerfully. A light seemed to exude from within him and Clark found himself powerless to smile back. He held out a hand and Grayson shook it firmly.

Clark sat down, pulling off his jacket as a waitress came over. “I’ll have some coffee and whatever Mr. Grayson’s having.”

“Please, call me Dick,” he said, quick to smile. He studied the menu for mere seconds before returning it to the stack behind the napkin holder. “Waffles and a side of bacon, please. And sausage. And some biscuits. Blackberry jam if you have it.”

Clark offered a bemused smile, earning a bashful one in return. “My treat,” Dick offered.

He had a nice smile. A genuinely kind smile. Even so, Clark could see he was pretty worn, shadows beneath his bright blue eyes. He had olive skin, well defined bone structure, though it wasn’t similar to Bruce’s. Then again, Clark knew firsthand that not every son resembled their father.

His haircut, the way he carried himself, even the way he spoke… this was definitely Bruce’s son.

Dick tapped his fingers to the table, studying Clark curiously. After some time, he brightened. “So… what did you want to talk to me about?”

_ Inherited Bruce’s acting talents. _ Clark hid a smile. “I was doing a story on Wayne Enterprises and it came to my attention that there were some… lesser known aspects of Mr. Wayne’s life that could shed some light on the depths of his generosity.”

Dick cocked his head to the side. “How so?”

“Well, he donates quite a bit to libraries, homes for wayward children, building projects around Gotham… orphanages.”

Dick blinked at him, no sign he’d heard the undercurrent of Clark’s words. “He’s an orphan.”

“He has a soft spot for children.” His face warmed at the undercurrent softness in his voice. “The research I found suggested he might have fostered some. For a business man without a partner, that’s quite a feat.”

“He has a butler.”

“Even so, that’s a hell of a commitment. I found it odd that he would do something so wonderful and try so hard to keep it out of the papers.”

Dick averted his gaze. “He’s a celebrity. Why wouldn’t he try to keep his children out of the public eye?”

_ Children? _

The waitress brought them their coffee. Clark held his mug in both hands, choosing his words carefully. “Richard— “ 

“Dick.”

“Dick, whatever game you think I’m playing: I’m not. Honest. This isn’t an attempt to make him look bad. The story isn’t even about him. Or, it was but…”  _ Now, it’s more about me. _ “I think it’s important that people see the real Bruce. Don’t you.”

Dick’s eyes narrowed, studying Clark guardedly. When his food came, he leaned back, picking up a fork and tapping it against the plate for a moment. It was rather loud; the kind of repetitive sound Clark couldn’t imagine in the stark silence of Wayne manor. It made him wonder what happened between Dick and Bruce. He found it hard to imagine Dick setting foot inside that house.

Diving into his food, Dick focused solidly on his plate. Then, “I used to be a trapeze artist,” he offered with a small smile. “I trained for  _ years _ . My parents had an act. The Flying Graysons. I don’t know if you’ve heard of ‘em back in Smallville, but they were the real deal. I spent my entire childhood trying to live up to their legacy. All I wanted to do was fly.

“When I was eight years old, a man tried to extort money out of Haly’s Circus. When Haly wouldn’t play nice, this man had someone cut the wires. My parents came out for their act and, in the middle of the show, the wires snapped and I watched them die.” Clark’s chest tightened, watching as Dick’s temple pulsed and he cut his waffles into very neat pieces. “I was standing less than ten feet away and I couldn’t do a damn thing to stop it.”

“You were just a kid,” Clark said, earning a sharp stare.

“I know that. Doesn’t change anything. Bruce took me in. He understood in a way no one else really could. The anger; the helplessness. The darkness that never really goes away. He made sure I got closure in a way that he never really could. He took a lot of steps to make sure that I didn’t turn out the way he did. He found a judge to seal my records, provided me with a trust under Martha Kane. Did everything he could to make sure a conversation like this one would never happen.”

Swallowing, Clark nodded to himself. “So, why is it?”

Dick’s eyes widened briefly before he set his knife and fork down. “I don’t want to read about this in the paper, but someone should know what kind of man he is.” He wiped his mouth, his eyes drifting to the side. Far from Clark and far from their surroundings. “He spends so much of his life making sure that other people don’t ever have to suffer the way he did. I was twelve years old before I realized he did that because being trapped with what he goes through for a moment, just one  _ second _ was nearly unbearable. It took years for me to realize how much he’d given up so I wouldn’t feel the same loneliness he felt.”

Clark chest tightened, remembering that haunted look in Bruce’s eye. “He saw himself in you.”

Dick’s mouth pressed into a grim line. “And he tried to wipe it out.” His eyes softened. “It didn’t work. I’m stubborn that way.”

The corner of Clarks’ mouth quirked. The words came out in a rush. “And your brother?”

Just like that, in an instant, Dick shut down completely. His eyes went cold. “What?”

Swallowing, Clark forced himself to explain. “From what I read, you weren’t the only kid Bruce took in.”

Dick studied him for a long moment before cursing. He grabbed his coat and messenger bag, pulling out his wallet. Clark reached for him desperately, Bruce’s face in his mind. “Wait, wait, Dick, please. I’m –  _ please – “ _

“I should have known better Alfred told me – but maybe he’s getting soft these days.”

“Dick, wait,” Clark pleaded, taking hold of his wrist. Dick frowned at him but he stopped, although the grimace never left his face. Releasing him, Clark took a deep breath and ran a hand through his hair.

After all, everything he’d been through, everything he’d done – what was the point in hiding anymore?

Levelling with Dick, his voice softened. “Listen to me: I’m not – I’m not writing story. Not anymore. Now, I just…” he sighed, chewing on his lip for a moment. “Look, you have no reason to trust me but, I promise you, I just want to help.”

Dick studied him for a solid minute before his eyes widened, lips parting in surprise. “Holy shit.” He fell down into the booth once more, dropping his bag beside him. “I can’t believe this. You care about him. I never thought I’d see that happen. Alfie was right.”

Clark’s face warmed but he pushed past the nervous twisting in his stomach. “What happened?”

Dick’s brow furrowed. “I never found out the full story. I… wasn’t around when it happened.” He pushed his plate further away, his voice rough. “I heard enough to know it wasn’t Bruce’s fault, but he blames himself anyway. He always does. No matter how many pieces are in play, how many lives he’s saved, no matter how many years he spends punishing himself, nothing ever changes and it’s always his fault.”

He reached into his back pocket and opened his wallet. There, nestled behind an impressive stack of bills and a few folded pieces of paper, a photo. A little blurry and creased in the center: Dick Grayson beaming with his arm draped over the shoulders of a surly teenager about his height with messy dark hair.

Clark took his offering gently, aware of Dick’s watchful eyes. “What was his name?”

“Jason,” Dick rasped, his hands no longer tapping playfully along the Formica table top. Instead, they were folded neatly before him, his breathing slow and calm. “He was a few years younger than me. I – when I – when Bruce and I went our separate ways, Bruce took Jason in. He was a terror,” he added with a soft smile.

“And he took your place as Bruce’s partner?”

“It wasn’t – it’s not something most people can understand. I’d spent years by Bruce’s side. With me it was… obligation. Steering into the skid. I wanted revenge on the man that took my family from me and I was willing to do whatever it took to get it. Bruce helped me take that anger and direct it towards helping people. He wasn’t always… the way he is now,” he finished slowly.

“What was he like as a father?”

Dick’s mouth worked for a moment before he settled on, “Patient. When he took me in, I don’t think he really knew what he was doing. He was still fairly young and didn’t really have anyone outside of Alfred to show him the way. But he was kind. A little overprotective. We butted heads a lot. He was embarrassingly out of touch with how to handle teenagers. He used to smile. He can do that, you know?”

Clark laughed softly, trying to picture Bruce with a child. “Why don’t you talk anymore?”

Dick didn’t ask how he knew. “You can be Bruce’s son, or you can be his partner. You can’t be both. The thing about disappointing him… when he looks at you, it’s like he’s seeing everyone who’s ever let him down. He’s a perfectionist. He can be demanding and impossible to please. Nothing I did was ever good enough and I started to see parts of him, of his obsession, his distrustfulness, in me. I left before I turned into him.”

He ran a hand through his hair. “When Jason took over, Bruce never even asked me,” he shared wryly. “And after Jason… things got worse. He put trackers on me, bugs in my apartment. He’d even started doing background checks on my friends. He isolated himself and the only person he trusted, aside from Alfred, was himself. That house…” he trailed off with a shudder.

“I’m sorry,” Clark replied, reaching across to touch his hand. “You don’t visit?”

“I’ve dropped in on Alfred a few times. I haven’t seen Bruce in months.” He shifted in his seat, a curious movement but Clark didn’t press. “He needs someone to care for. Someone to nurture or to teach or to – to  _ train _ . He needs  _ people _ . Despite what he says, he needs a family.” He studied Clark for a moment. “He’s not a monster.”

“I never said— “

“It’s what you think. It’s what everyone thinks. Look, he’s an asshole. More stubborn than anyone I’ve ever met. But he’s my father and I don’t ever want to see him hurt.”

Sighing tiredly, he stood from the table, rubbing at his eyes. He tossed down a few bills for the meal he hadn’t eaten and a rather generous tip. “I trust you’ll keep this conversation between us.”

He took the picture from Clark and carefully folded it back into his wallet. He tucked it in his back pocket as he left the diner. Touching it once to make sure it was still there.

+

Clark spent a few nights scouring newspapers for any record of a teenager named Jason. He didn’t have a last name. He didn’t have a picture to send to Lois and he found himself almost afraid to find out more. The Joker’s interview kept circling through his thoughts, the words more haunting than before. What had become of the young boy Bruce had taken on as a protégé? What had led to Bruce taking him on in the first place?

One night, he came home on the phone with his Ma. Hearing Dick speak of his estrangement with such regret had left Clark desperate to speak to his mother. He couldn’t imagine how she would feel if she lost him; how different her life would be. Smallville knew her as a firecracker; the sweet lady on the farm out west. If Clark had been lost to her, would she have lost that spark? Would she continue to rattle around that house like an old ghost?

What would Bruce be like today if Jason had lived?

“Ma? Ma, I gotta go. I’m home now. Yes, my door is locked,” he said, rushing over to turn the latch quietly. He turned around, a soft smile on his face. “I miss you, too. I’ll swing by soon. Okay. Okay. Love you, too – oh my god!”

Veering back violently, he fell through the wall, plaster splattering everywhere. Dressed in a long peacoat and loafers, Bruce stood in front of Clark’s small dining room table, flipping through some of Clark’s notes on the Bat, his theories about who’d attacked him that night in the rain. At the commotion, he spared Clark a raised brow and returned to perusing.

Clark heard the tinny sound of his mother’s voice from the receiver. “Clark? Clark! Clark Joseph Kent, you answer me!” Clark held the phone to his ear just as the familiar tirade began. “Told you not to go out to that blasted city— “

“I’m fine, Ma. I just – I saw a mouse.” Bruce’s nose wrinkled briefly but he continued reading.

“Clark, you scared the dickens out of me,” Martha chided. “Talk to you soon.”

“Love you.” He hung up and pocketed his phone. “What are you doing here?”

“Your locks are cheap.”

He returned to sifting through more of Clark’s notebooks, a small furrow in his brow. Clark had come to think of that as his analyzing expression and couldn’t help but be a little nervous about Bruce’s thoughts on his work. Crossing his arms, Clark moved in closer, taking in the small scar near Bruce’s hairline, the stiff way he moved. A month had passed but, considering the damage and his unwillingness to take it easy, Clark doubted he was fully healed.

Clark cleared his throat. “Listen, about the last time we spoke— “

“We have a case to work, Kent.” He raised one of the notebooks pointedly and Clark sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“You have a lead?” He supposed, with the inability to get out on the street, Bruce would have used his down time to research. Clark could have except he’d spent his time looking into Bruce.

“Not exactly.” Raising his chin, he eyed Clark cautiously. “I’m sick of following money trails and chasing white rabbits. Time to go straight to the source.”

“Your mystery perp? The one that hired the contractor?”

“It’s just a theory,” Bruce supplied, uncharacteristically hesitant. It gave Clark pause.

“Who is it?”

“You’re not going to like this,” he said, the corner of his mouth turning up.

Bruce drove like a stunt driver.

Clark had grown up driving the tractor around the farm and he’d rarely driven anything aside from that. It had been years since he’d had the need to drive so, it had been quite some time since he’d been in a car. Starting again with Bruce was a terrible idea.

The tumbler’s engine revved, the vibration rumbling through him and sparking adrenaline in his veins. This wasn’t quite like flying but he imagined this was as close as Bruce got to that felling: the raw power, racing through the streets, scenery flying by faster than he could process. Clark’s heart beat fast in his chest, his breath catching with the exhilaration of it all. His hands tightened into fists, holding tight to the seat as he felt his blood travel south.

He’d never been turned on watching someone drive but there was something about Bruce’s calm, the effortless mannerisms, the focus that never failed to get Clark’s blood pumping. He felt like anything could happen and he was just along for the ride.

Bruce’s eyes cut to his, a spark that a brushfire down his spine. The engine revved louder, Clark’s eyes widening as Bruce’s eyes cut to him. Hurtling through the streets at breakneck speed, his eyes holding Bruce’s as they whipped through the pitch-black night. Clark could stop him, if he needed; he could get them out should they crash. But they wouldn’t. He knew that.

Bruce had it handled.

Impulsively, Clark wondered what would happen if he pulled Bruce forward and crushed their mouths together. If he let go of his careful watch for a split second. One moment in time wherein he focused solely on the feel of Bruce’s lips against his, the thrumming of the engine and the taste of him on his tongue. One second, an instant where he wasn’t special or extraordinary. He was just a man riding in a fast car and putting every ounce of his painstaking control in Bruce’s hands.

Swallowing, Clark shook the thought away, watching as Bruce studied him with a curious look in his eye before returning to the road. The car went into a tail spin, Clark held tight to the door, eyes wide as Bruce expertly fishtailed and slid beneath the closing entrance to LexCorp’s parking garage. He raced through the levels, climbing higher and higher until they reached the top in a screech of tires.

They came to an abrupt stop facing the elevator to the building. Clark’s heart pounded in his chest, his hands still clinging to the door. He was surprised to see he hadn’t dented it.

The corner of Bruce’s mouth ticked up as they climbed out. Clark’s ears were trained. He was dressed in all black, his suit and cape deemed too flash for the job. He’d kindly informed Bruce that, should he go out like this, glasses and all, Lex may not sic his dogs after Superman but he’d certainly sic them after mild mannered reporter Clark Kent. Bruce had simply tossed him a black domino mask. Now, Clark looked like a thief from the 1920s.

They moved silently through the halls, Bruce’s suit surprisingly stealthy as he kept to the shadows and followed a map on Bruce’s handheld device.

“What are we looking for exactly?”

“Anything that proves Lex hired the contractor.”

“And you think it was him because… what? He found out you stole something from his server?”

“That and he has the money and means to arrange such a thing.”

“But why me? Why tie me to this?” And if Lex truly knew that he was Superman, why hadn’t he told Clark’s secret?

Bruce eyed him for a moment. “I’m not sure.”

They reached the lower levels where they encountered a lab. The doors had just opened when Clark heard a quiet click. Rushing Bruce, he slammed him into a nearby wall as an alarm started to blare and he heard the sound of heavy boots on the tile floor. Bruce’s armor was hard and unyielding against Clark’s chest, his eyes dark as they met Clark’s.

“What now, Big Blue?”

Clark glared at him, looking to the left where he could see men headed their way and to the right where there was a dead end. Then up, looping his arm around Bruce’s waist and rising sharply into the air. Gasping, Bruce clung to his shirt as they rose. He had just enough leverage to toss one of batarangs into a nearby camera. Men rushed past them on their way to the dead end. The doors opened and he looked to Clark curiously.

They dropped slowly, Clark listened for more men. When he heard nothing, he started back down the hallway they’d come down. Bruce gripped his arm, “Where are you going?”

“Lex’s office is probably down another level.”

“And he’s concentrating all his men on guarding whatever’s in that lab.”

“I’m going this way,” Clark said firmly and Bruce held his arm tighter before cursing and letting him go.

“We meet back here in fifteen minutes. No excuses.”

What Clark found was more empty rooms with roving cameras. He’s started to wonder if, perhaps, Lex didn’t have an office here at all. He’d started back towards the rendezvous point when Bruce nearly barreled into him, grabbing his shirt and pulling him along.

“Run,” he ordered tersely, picking up speed.

“What’s— “

A gun sounded, glancing off of Clark’s cheek and ricocheting into a nearby wall. Cursing, Bruce pulled Clark to his side as they raced down the hall. Clark scanned for an exit but the emergency lockdown sequence had been initiated and the doors were coming down in front. Looking to the wall, Clark revved up to break through when Bruce slammed into his side and they went into a spin. He twisted in front and pressed Bruce against the wall with a grunt.

Brown eyes widened in surprise, Bruce’s lips parted before pressing into a firm line. Reaching past Clark, he shot his grappling gun. Clark had seconds to process the strong arm around his waist before they were zipping through the air. A hook like feeling in his gut as he held tight to Bruce and they broke through the glass ceiling.

The cool night air whipped through Clark’s thin shirt, the moon beaming down on them from above. They were several stories up, the roof behind them slick and hard to find purchase on. A hand gripped his shirt.

“C’mon!” Bruce shouted, sliding down the edge.

Clark had no choice with the hand on his shirt. It was almost like flying: careening down the side of the building faster and faster as they gathered momentum. Just when he thought Bruce’s clever plan had been dropping to their deaths, Bruce shot out another hook, pulling Clark along and they fell safely to the ground.

Bruce hurried towards the driveway, his car coming to a halt beside them. Then he grunted, slamming into the body of the car. Clark looked to him curiously when another shot glanced off of the roof. Clark started to rise into the air when Bruce gripped his shirt once more.

“Stay down.”

“Why?”

“Just do it!”

He slid into the front seat and slammed the door shut, revving the engine. Clark looked to the building, the glass doors bursting open as men in black raced towards them with rifles. He looked to the skies and the open road, his instincts telling him that he should take care of all this right now, a large gust of wind would do the trick.

“Get in the damn car!”

Grumbling, Clark took one more look at their pursuers and finally climbed into the passenger seat. The car shot forward, tires screeching as more bullets glanced off the roof and back end. Bruce crashed through the security bar and skidded into the road.

Ripping off his mask, Clark shouted, “I could have handled that!”

“It’s better this way,” Bruce replied brusquely, launching into a skid as the car leapt onto the freeway, thunderous as he focused on the road.

“Why?” Bruce’s foot pressed harder on the gas. “Bruce, tell me what you found.”

More silence as they sped down the empty road. “Bruce!”

“Not here.”

Clark slammed his door shut, turning to glare at Bruce where he stood in the middle of his kitchen. Clark moved in closer, resting his hands on the back of a dining room chair and looking to him expectantly.

Sighing, Bruce pulled his cowl off and set it aside on the couch, running a hand through his hair. He paced a few steps, turning his back on Clark. That, more than anything else, gave Clark pause. At what point had Bruce come to trust Clark enough to turn his back on him?

“Luthor planned this.”

“The break in?” Clark asked, moving in closer.

“No.” Bruce turned around to face him. “All of it.” His hands curled into fists, “He wanted us at each other’s throats.”

Clark’s blood ran cold. “What do you mean?”

“He wanted to put me on your scent so I’d hunt you down. He wanted me angry enough that I’d stop at nothing to shut you down. Angry enough to—“ he cut himself off abruptly, eyes wide and fearful. He sat down on the couch, covering his mouth. Clark barely caught the stifled, “Do what I almost did.”

Heart pounding, Clark came to stand a few feet in front of him, his arms crossed tight over his chest. “Why would Luthor care?”

“I don’t know.” Bruce gazed up at him, more open to Clark than he’d ever been before. “Did you have any run ins with him?”

“No.”

“Write any stories on him?”

“No.”

“His company?”

“No.”

“His father?”

“No.”

“Think.”

“I don’t know, Bruce.” He held out his hands in supplication. ”I – I never really got any big stories at the Planet. I could be asking you the same questions.”

Bruce’s mouth snapped shut as he considered this for a moment. Then, “It has to be you.”

Sighing, Clark covered his face in annoyance. As he did, he heard Bruce yawn quietly. Clark dropped his hand and took a closer look at Bruce. He was exhausted; dark circles under his eyes, shadow growing in and his movements a little sluggish now that the adrenaline had worn off.

A strange urge came over Clark, Dick’s words echoing in his mind Clark reached out, stilling when Bruce veered back a little. He waited until Bruce calmed a little and then he softly touched his face, trailing his fingers along his cheek and smoothing into his hair. He cupped Bruce’s chin, Bruce’s eyes narrowing curiously as Clark leaned down.

Darting in, Bruce crushed their mouths together, taking Clark by surprise. He nearly overbalanced, the shock making it easier to pull Clark into his lap. It was a little jarring: Clark was so used to being careful not to weigh too heavily on his partners. Bruce seemed to welcome it; wrapping his arm around Clark’s back and slipping his tongue into Clark’s mouth. After so long without this, it was so easy for Clark to sigh and fall into it. Bruce’s hand in his hair, just this side of too rough. His body hot and firm beneath him, his broad palm on Clark’s neck.

His breathing was loud in Clark’s ears, hushed and thin. Clark stiffened, remembering what he’d been intending to do moments ago. Bruce was exhausted; he was barely hanging on. He should be in bed. Starting to pull away, he stifled a moan when Bruce’s hand tightened in his hair. Clark back away, his feet touching the floor.

He opened his eyes to find Bruce staring at him speculatively. “You need to be in bed.” Bruce’s brow furrowed. Were Clark less concerned with mortality, he would be tempted to call it cute. “I’ll get some blankets. You can sleep here.”

Bruce cocked his head to the side, eyes alit with quiet amusement. Clark warmed, running a hand over his head. “You have a pretty big bed.”

“I know.”

“I thought people from Smallville were all about hospitality.”

“If we share, we’re not getting any sleep,” Clark said huskily, stepping back a few feet to be safe. Bruce’s eyes followed him, his tongue sliding over his lips. “And you need sleep,” he added, more for himself than Bruce.

“I should get back.”

Clark went over to the hall closet and pulled out a blanket and a pillow. He tossed them at Bruce and turned off the table lamp. “Sleep, Bruce. You need it.”

+

When Clark came out the next morning, he was rather surprised to find Bruce asleep on his couch.

His face was smushed into a pillow, the blanket down by his waist. He’d removed his armor and spread across Clark’s couch in a simple pair of black briefs. Shirtless, Clark was able to see a pretty painful bruise along Bruce’s left side and a healing gash on his bicep. Other than those, he appeared to be in pretty good shape.

It was odd seeing him without armor. Although, Clark knew enough to know that didn’t make Bruce harmless. Far from it. Should the need arise, Bruce could protect himself. Still, the sight of him so bare left Clark feeling strangely protective over him. As if he was more aware now of just how easily Bruce could be hurt.

Clark could squeeze too hard, get over excited and hurt Bruce. He’d spent his entire life learning control, but there was something about Bruce that brought out parts of himself that he didn’t recognize.

This man had spent the better part of a year hating him. This man had used sex as a method to control him. This man that had probably considered killing him. And even so, Clark felt the need to protect him. He marveled at having earned enough trust that Bruce turned his back on him. His skin burned with the need to feel Bruce’s hands on him again.

Clark didn’t understand it.

“You make a habit of staring at me?” Bruce asked groggily, his eyes still closed.

Clark padded over softly. “Just making sure you didn’t injure yourself again.”

“I’m fine.”

“See, the last time you said that, you’d been stabbed. You see why I might not have the utmost confidence in your assessment?”

He shuffled towards the kitchen, going through the motions of preparing breakfast. Assuming Bruce ate food. He set out a mixing bowl and some flour. Pancakes were easy enough. Who could possibly hate pancakes?

“That’s a typical Tuesday for me.”

Clark opened the fridge and pulled out a carton of eggs and some milk. “Maybe you ought to look into a career change – what are you doing?” Clark demanded, watching Bruce climb to his feet and move over to the bar. “Go lay down.”

“I can sit, Kent.”

“You should be resting,” he chided, pointing a spoon at him. Bruce’s eyes glimmered with amusement. Clark pulled out the vegetable oil, biting his lip as he set his hands on the counter and sighed. Levelling with Bruce, he added, “And it’s Clark. You’ve seen me naked. You can call me by my first name.”

The corner of Bruce’s mouth turned up as he watched Clark avidly. “Am I mistaken or did you tell Alfred to call you Clark, as well? Something you want to tell me?”

“Very funny.” He set about mixing everything together, trying to remember the recipe from memory. It had been quite some time since he’d gone to the trouble for himself. He was tempted to call his mother and ask. “He’s nice, by the way.”

“I’ll tell him you said that,” he replied amusedly.

“He’s been with your family a long time.”

“Yes.”

“So, he knew your parents?”

Bruce quieted. A few moments passed in which Clark assumed he wasn’t going to get any additional information when Bruce cleared his throat. “His father worked for them and, when he passed, Alfred took over. I was about five or six.”

Admittedly, it was hard for Clark to imagine Bruce as a child. Even in his mind, Bruce was dressed in a three-piece suit. Clark looked to him. “What were they like?”

Bruce’s eyes widened ever so slightly. “Kind.” Clark waited for him to say more. When he didn’t, Clark focused on the mixing bowl once more. “They were very charitable. My mother was always hosting some sort of charity ball or gala. She was beautiful.”

His voice softened and Clark fought to keep his focus on mixing and not sneaking a peek at Bruce’s face, for fear that he’d stop talking. “My father was a doctor. He worked quite a bit but he always made time for me. He loved the cinema. That's where we’d left the night they,” he cleared his throat, his voice growing rough. “The night they were killed.”

Clark set the bowl down, looking up at him. He appeared calm, his hands still laced on the countertop but his breathing was a little labored. Just enough that the average person probably would have missed it.

“I’m sorry,” Clark said softly and Bruce’s eyes widened.

“You really mean that,” he said measuredly. He licked his lips, studying Clark more intently. “I don’t understand you.”

Clark stiffened, frowning in response. “Because I’m sorry about what happened to your parents?”

“It shouldn’t make a difference to you. You are – I’m not exactly sure what you are but you’re not human. You weren’t born here. Simple human mortality doesn’t apply to you and anyone that you meet and form…  _ attachments _ to will never understand what you can do.”

Stomach twisting, Clark struggled to find his voice. “So, I should be alone? Forever?”

“I’m just trying to make sense of it.” His brow furrowed, “What Lex did, his plan hinged on me coming to see you as a threat.”

“He didn’t have to work very hard.”

“He didn’t,” Bruce replied firmly. “All he needed was the destruction of New York to put me on your trail. Everything else that happened after was just fuel for the fire.”

“I know you don’t believe me, but I did the best I could at the time.”

“You believe that.” Bruce shook his head, minute displeasure on his face. But for once, it wasn’t aimed at Clark. Not entirely. “You paid no attention to the people harmed during the fight. I thought it was arrogance, maybe even apathy but… it wasn’t.” He stared at Clark head on, his face grave. “You’re untrained and undisciplined.”

“Excuse me?”

“You don’t know what you’re doing— “

“Do you know what kind of person Zod was?”

“No concept of how to take the fight to an unpopulated area— “

“I was trying to help!”

“I know,” Bruce replied quietly. He held Clark’s gaze steadily, his breathing calm. After some time, it calmed Clark as well. His voice softened, his gaze speculative. “It’s not a criticism. Well, it is but… not the way you think.”

He stood carefully and came around the counter to stand next to Clark in the kitchen. Clark’s heart ticked up a beat as he turned to face him. “You’re making me pancakes.”

The corner of Clark’s mouth turned up, his hand dropping down to the counter. “I was. Before this.”

“I was planning to kill you.”

Clark tensed at the certainty he heard in Bruce’s voice. Although – “Was?”

“I was.”

Leaning in, Bruce’s hands landed on either side of Clark’s body. His closeness set off a nervous fluttering in Clark’s stomach, his head clouded. Bruce’s eyes were dark, gazing at Clark consideringly as he reached out to touch Clark’s stomach. It was then that Clark remembered he hadn’t grabbed a shirt this morning. Bruce’s hands were rough yet gentle, leaving a brushfire along Clark’s skin as his hand rose from Clark’s abdomen to his chest. A finger pad traced lightly over Clark’s nipple, breath catching at Clark’s quiet intake of breath. His palm spread out over Clark’s heart, his eyes averted before they snapped to meet Clark’s.

Everything slowed, the space between charged with an energy that was painfully familiar, yet different all the same. Clark’s world narrowed down to the intense hunger in Bruce’s gaze. He found his lips parting before Bruce darted in, hands reaching out of their own accord to cup Bruce’s face and pull him in. In some ways, it was the softest kiss they’d ever shared. A barely there touch of the lips, Bruce holding him in place with a palm on his chest. His tongue slipped in, sly and searching, seeking Clark’s and coaxing him out teasingly.

This kiss was tame in comparison to the rushed kisses of their past; gently warming Clark’s blood until he was trembling, every brush of skin stoking the fire within. He was overwhelmed and overcome, his head swimming with thoughts of Bruce’s body laid bare beneath him. His hands, his mouth, his length pulsing inside of him leaving him breathless and full. Clark had already plotted his way to the nearest flat surface, his hips rolling forward to meet Bruce’s.

Groaning, Bruce pulled back abruptly, his hand curling into a fist on Clark’s chest. His cheeks were flushed, lips bruised and the sight made Clark’s insides twist in pleasure. Bruce’s voice was rough. “We should stop.”

“Why?”

“Alfred would kill me.” At Clark’s confusion, “He was… more than a bit displeased to learn what I’d been doing with you. He said something that made me reconsider my assessment of you.”

Clark licked his lips, watching Bruce trace the motion hungrily. “That’s all it took? Getting Alfred in my corner?”

“That and working with you.  _ Really _ working with you.” His eyes fell to Clark’s mouth once more and he forced himself to step back, his hands falling down at his sides. “Alfred suggested that I get to know you.”

Clark ran a hand over his hair. “You want to… date me?”

Bruce’s nose wrinkled in response. “In a manner of speaking.”

“And that means no sex?” he asked, more curious than disappointed, really.

“For now.” The corner of his mouth turned up. “Alfred suggested that I get to know you better.”

“Aside from all of the information on your super computer, you mean?”

Bruce nearly smiled. “Exactly.”


	5. Chapter 5

Clark wasn’t sure what dating Bruce Wayne would entail.

The stories Cat Grant ran on Bruce Wayne’s countless love affairs ranged from spontaneous trips to Paris to quiet nights at the manor catered by world renowned chefs. It was hard for Clark to contemplate that he was, in fact, dating a billionaire. When he looked at Bruce, that was the last thing he noticed.

Sure, Bruce was always dressed in clothes Clark could never hope to afford. He could fit his entire apartment in Bruce’s mansion, and maybe even the building. It was clear Bruce had a hell of a lot more money than Clark and he knew how to spend it.

Even knowing this, Clark wasn’t prepared to come home a few days after their trip to Lex’s and finding two men carrying his couch out into the street. Thinking he’d been robbed, Clark rushed forward to stop them when he noticed two other men carrying a couch into his apartment. Clark hurried down the hall and found them setting it down in his living room. Bruce stood there on his phone, leaning against the kitchen counter.

As Clark approached, he noticed the couch was leather and quite expensive. He moved came over to Bruce, setting his bag down on the counter.

“What did you do?”

“Your couch wasn’t exactly comfortable,” Bruce replied, pocketing his phone. The men gathered the plastic wrap and left the apartment, closing the door behind them. “So, I bought you a new one.”

“You bought me a new one,” Clark repeated slowly, turning to stare at it. A little dazed, Clark asked, “Did you at least donate the old one?”

Bruce pulled Clark over to the new couch, pushing Clark down on it as he climbed over. “Yes, of course.” He nosed into Clark’s throat, nipping at his skin. Moaning, Clark nearly missed his next words. “I donated it to the alley.”

“Bruce!” Clark exclaimed, sitting up. Bruce frowned at him unapologetically and Clark fell back with a sigh. “I liked that couch.”

Resting on his knees, Bruce’s brow furrowed in uncharacteristic hesitance. “Do you want me to have them bring it back?” There was a flash of lightning and Clark heard the tell-tale sound of a thunderstorm. Bruce winced a bit. Groaning, Clark slammed his head back against the cushion in frustration. “It was in pretty bad shape.”

“That couch was passed down from generation to generation.”

“You have a family couch?” Bruce asked, raising a brow.

“Not exactly.” Clark touched the hem of Bruce’s shirt, thumbing the bottom button as he spoke. “The Lang family gave it to me when I moved here. They’d kept it for years.”

Bruce thought this over. “You couldn’t afford a couch?”

Clark eyes him unashamedly. “Not everyone was born with a silver spoon in their mouth. I grew up on a farm, Bruce. We didn’t’ exactly have extra money lying around. I work and send money home to Ma when I can.”

Bruce averted his gaze, his mouth working. “I can help.”

Eyes widening, Clark’s chest warmed. His hands slid under Bruce’s chest, petting him softly. “We’re okay.” Bruce shivered, his stomach tightening under Clark’s palms. “So, is that the only reason you dropped by?” he asked, his voice lowering.

Bruce’s eyes darkened as Clark’s hands slid higher up. “Not exactly. I wanted to invite you to dinner.”

“Buying me a couch was a hell of an opening gambit. You could have just asked me.” Bruce rolled his eyes. “Where are we going?”

“Chez Henri’s.” At Clark’s wince, he frowned. “What?”

“That place is pretty pricey.”

The corner of Bruce’s mouth turned up. “I can afford it.”

“I know, it’s just that…” his face warmed, “it’s going to sound silly but, the idea of going someplace where I couldn’t’ even afford an appetizer makes me feel…”

He trailed off but Bruce heard him all the same. “We can go somewhere you like.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“You wouldn’t mind?” Bruce shook his head, although a little more hesitant now. “I know just the place.”

Bruce stood on the corner with the bag of burgers and fries, eying Clark and the nearby park bench skeptically. “Not exactly the most romantic location for dinner.”

Clark grinned, wrapping his arms around Bruce. “Who said we were eating here?”

Bruce frowned as Clark’s grip tightened and he rose up in the air. Bruce’s eyes went wide, an arm wrapping around Clark as they rose higher and higher before coming to a stop on the ledge of a building. They were sitting beside a stone angel on the top of a bank building.

Clark looked to Bruce nervously as he watched him take in the sight before them. Clark came here from time to time when he wanted to look out across the city. It had the best view of Metropolis: a great view of the bridge, a great vantage point for the skyline and an excellent view of the crystal blue water. It felt like the air was crisper up here, the sounds of the city washing over him as his jacket fought the chill. Bruce studied it quietly, appearing rather thoughtful.

“You like it?” Clark asked.

Bruce’s mouth quirked, not quite a smile. “Your city is different.” He picked up a fry and examined it for a moment. “It’s quiet.”

Clark shook his head fondly, watching Bruce take a tentative bite. “Is it your first time?”

Bruce huffed out a laugh. “It’s been a long time since someone’s asked me that.”

Clark’s face warmed as he chewed on a fry. “Has it?”

“Is it customary to ask when your date lost their virginity? On the first date?”

“I wouldn’t really know,” Clark replied wryly, poking around his fries. “I went on one real date back in Smallville. Lana Lang,” he said with a smile. “My Pa took us to dinner and sat a few booths behind us. I felt like I was on display. It was a lot like when he watched me during my first school play.”

“You were in a play?”

“The Jungle Book. I auditioned for Mowgli and won the part of Hunter, the wolf cub. I had three lines and I butchered all of them. Ma still took me out for ice cream after and told me I’d done a good job. I was seven.”

Bruce returned to his food. “I never did any plays. I went to boarding schools and what shows they put on weren’t exactly Fiddler on the Roof.”

“Spoiled rich kid. You wouldn’t have looked twice at me, huh?”

Bruce stiffened before he realized Clark was teasing. “I would have,” he replied, lost in thought. “I used to wish I was a normal kid that could just play baseball and just be a kid.”

“My parents tried to give me that. But everything was always a little different with me.” He didn’t like the disappointed slope to Bruce’s shoulders. He bumped him softly with his own. “But you have eaten a burger and fries, right?”

Bruce rose a brow but didn’t answer. He held the burger somewhat awkwardly, as if that wasn’t answer enough. He took a tentative bite. Clark watched avidly as Bruce chewed for a minute and let out an interested hum.

“I can’t believe you’ve never eaten a burger before.”

“I have,” Bruce insisted. “It’s just been a while.”

Clark smiled. “I can’t picture Alfred flipping burgers.”

Bruce shook his head, taking another bite. When he swallowed, he added, “He wants you to come back.”

“Are you trying to date me because your surrogate father approves of me?”

“Surrogate father?”

“Family isn’t just blood.” _I know you know that._

“I told you, I’m just reconsidering my early assessment.” Clark got the sense that wasn’t a common occurrence for him.

“Well after sleeping with me several times.”

“You’re a curious one.”

“You keep saying that,” Clark noted quietly. “I could say the same about you.” Bruce eyed him carefully. “I sometimes wonder why it is you do this.”

“Why I go out every night?” Clark nodded. He studied his burger, thinking over his response. “Same reasons you do, I suspect.”

“Because you can?”

“Yes.” He let out a slow breath. “Part of it used to be about finding the man that killed my parents. It consumed so much of my life before I realized this was something bigger than me. There’s so much loss and pain in the world and if I could take some of that away, I had to try. If I could save someone, even just one person, that means something.”

“But you don’t see the world the way I do,” Clark said, setting his burger down. Bruce looked to him in question. “You see the world in shadows and darkness. You want to know what I see? Why I do this?”

He wiped his hands and rose up, hovering in front of Bruce. He held out a hand. Frowning, Bruce set his food down and took Clark’s hand. Uncertain, a furrow in his brow as Clark held him tight, wrapping an arm around his waist, his feet beneath Bruce’s.

He leaned in close, his lips brushing Bruce’s ear and earning a shiver. Clark closed his eyes, breathing in the scents and sounds of the city. “Right now, right this very moment, I can hear a father comforting his young daughter after a nightmare. I can hear a young man rehearsing his proposal speech. I can hear a mother playing hide and seek with her son. I can hear an elderly couple turning in for the night A little ways off, I can hear two children telling ghost stories and their parents running over their nightly expenses. I can hear a woman telling her girlfriend that she loves her for the very first time.”

He whispered, “I can hear the way your heart beats faster every time my skin touches yours.”

A quiet intake of breath as Bruce’s heart beat faster in his chest. Clark’s stomach tightened as he nosed into Bruce’s cheek and stole a kiss. Bruce sighed, welcoming him in.

The rest of the city melted away.

+

It was a slow beginning.

Bruce would send cars for Clark after work to take him to dinner. Sometimes he’d show up in person but he tried to maintain secrecy. Clark had wondered if Bruce was ashamed of him but, in Bruce’s own words, he was trying to keep the upper hand. As far as Lex Luthor knew, they were still at each other’s throats. He hadn’t mentioned what he intended to do about their situation but Clark wasn’t worried. He figured, if he kept Bruce happy, there would be a less violent solution.

So, Clark kept Bruce happy. And, strangely enough, Clark was happy.

True to Bruce’s promise, they hadn’t slept together. It meant a lot of cold showers for Clark and nights alone with his right hand. Ending their goodnight kisses before they got too comfortable on flat surfaces. Even though the couch Bruce had bought him was very comfortable. Bruce’s desk was surprisingly comfortable. As was Clark’s dining room table. And the couch in Bruce’s office. And Bruce’s office door. Clark wasn’t choosy.

As tempted as he was, they never went further than what two teenagers could get up to at a movie.

Even so, Clark was growing fonder every day of the little quirks and mannerisms he’d missed before. The way Bruce always held doors, pulled out chairs and served Clark before himself. The way he took his hand when they walked anywhere and always, always made sure to ask after Martha when they met up. The way his eyes softened when he talked about his parents and again when Clark spoke of his childhood. The way he touched Clark more than he ever had before.

The wrinkle in his brow when he was displeased but refused to show it. The little concepts that were second nature to Clark but were utterly foreign to a rich boy like Bruce. The way he focused so intently on just about anything he did, from the time Clark took him mini golfing to his work in Gotham’s streets. The way Clark had come to understand his moods.

There was a name for that warm feeling in Clark’s chest but he refused to acknowledge it.

One night, Clark was late for one of their dates. Ridiculously late.

He’s stayed after hours at the Planet to work on what was supposed to be a fluff piece on the Metropolis University Bulldogs’ new uniforms. An anonymous source dropped off a copy of the team’s financial records, which led to the discovery that several of the donations collected from school fundraisers and alumni donations weren’t exactly going where the head coach had said they were going.

He was midway through the one hundred and thirty-fifth page of financials when his stomach started to growl. Looking up at the clock, he was shocked to realize it was well past eleven o’clock and he was over five hours late meeting Bruce for dinner. Cursing, he shuffled through the mess of papers and coffee cups on his desk to find his cell phone. He dialed Bruce’s number and prayed this wouldn’t be the straw that broke the camel’s back.

Then he heard a ring from the hallway.

Clark stood just as the office doors opened and Bruce arrived, looking rather unamused. And unfairly attractive, but Clark was more than used to that at this point. He offered a sheepish smile as Bruce approached.

“I’m so sorry. I just realized what time it was.” His stomach rumbled and he ran a hand over his face. He heard a rustling and then the smell of marinara.

Bruce cleared off the corner of Bruce’s desk and set down a bag of takeout food. “I figured you got caught up with work.”

It was such an unexpected kindness that Clark found himself tongue tied for a moment. Bruce set about opening the containers and laying out a few plates for them. Clark stood and pulled over a chair for Bruce to sit in.

Bruce handed Clark his plate and started in on his own. “So, what are we working on?”

Clark hid a smile, gathering some pasta on a fork and turning the screen towards Bruce. “I was supposed to be writing a feature on the Metropolis University Bulldogs’ new uniforms.”

Bruce rose a brow. “Supposed to?”

Clark scrolled to the top of the page as he explained. “I interviewed the cheerleaders about a car wash they hosted to raise money for the team. Then the organization of moms that put on a bake sale for them. I found page after page of fundraisers.”

Bruce quickly grasped where he was going with this. His eyes narrowed, the detective in him already evaluating the evidence. “You’re wondering why it took so many fundraisers.” He tapped his fork against the plate. “Fraud?”

“Looks like it.” Clark pulled off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’ve been at this for a while and I still can’t figure out where the money went.” He offered a bashful smile. “I was never that great at financial analysis. That’s more Lois’ thing.”

Bruce mouth twitched and he wiped his hands and rolling up his sleeves. Clark found himself distracted by the sight of Bruce’s bare forearms, his biceps bulging delightfully as he moved in closer. As he did, Clark caught more of his cologne and his skin warmed. It was painfully easy to remember the last time he’d had Bruce warm and heavy on top of him, his scent surrounding him. Swallowing, he shook himself out of the memory as Bruce leaned in closer, brown eyes keen and focused.

His voice lowered, almost seductively. “Well lucky for you, I’m pretty damn good at it.”

He took over the mouse and Clark’s keyboard in the process. Clark hid a smile behind is hand, gathering more pasta. “Thanks.”

Bruce worked quietly for a moment, barely pausing to eat. He quickly scanned through the records and commandeered one of Clark’s notepads. His handwriting was surprisingly neat, even as he jotted out some sort of shorthand Clark couldn’t decipher. From time to time, he asked Clark to recount what he’d learned in his interviews.

After an hour, Clark asked, “What do you think?”

“I think you’re right. There’s something going on here. I don’t think it’s simple embezzlement.”

“Money laundering?”

A shake of the head. “No, as far as I can see, the coach doesn’t have any connections to any criminals.”

“You’re only looking into him?”

Bruce blinked at him. “He’s at the forefront of all of this.”

“I don’t know. I just didn’t get that vibe from him,” Clark said, chewing on a piece of bread.

“Vibe?” Bruce asked blandly.

“He seemed like a nice guy.”

Bruce turned to face him head on. “Your judgment isn’t exactly flawless.” At the slight, Clark frowned, prompting Bruce to lighten his tone. “You’re determined to see the best in everyone.”

“And that’s a bad thing?”

“It blinds you.”

“Does it?” Clark asked simply. “Is it better to see the worst in everyone?”

“What do you mean?”

“You treat everyone like an enemy. Keeping secrets, keeping everyone out. Making it impossibly hard for anyone to get to know you.”

“It’s safest.”

“For you?”

“For them.” He scratched at his temple and then gestured to the laptop. “Trust has to be earned.”

“You trust me.” It wasn’t a question but Bruce treated it like one. He nodded once, warming Clark from within and giving him the courage to continue. “So, trust me. I don’t think Coach Gosslar had anything to do with this.”

“Because he’s ‘nice’?” Bruce asked dryly.

“Because he’s nice.” Clark chewed on his lip for a moment. “It’s a gut feeling. I’m a pretty good judge of character.”

Bruce studied him for a minute and then sighed, returning to the computer. “Then who do you think is behind this?”

Clark shrugged, leaning in closer. His chin rested on Bruce’s shoulder as he grabbed the mouse. Bruce’s breath caught but he remained still. His scent was stronger here, making it hard for Clark to concentrate as his voice grew raspy. “I think it’s someone further down the food chain. Someone who had access to all the fundraiser money. Someone Gosslar trusted implicitly.”

“Someone like who?”

He touched Clark’s hand and moved the mouse over a few pages to the flyers they’d compiled on all of the fundraisers. His hand was warm, lashes fluttering over his cheeks as he read through the pages. Clark’s stomach twisted nervously.

“He was present for all of this and it stands to reason he collected all of the funds at the end of the night,” Bruce explained.

Frowning, Clark rested his head on Bruce’s shoulder as he read. After a few moments, Bruce read aloud, voicing his conclusions. At first Clark wondered if he was trying to rub it in that Clark was “clearly” wrong. The more he read, the more Clark realized that wasn’t the case. Bruce was kindly trying to convince Clark of Gosslar’s guilt.

Finally, Bruce made another note on the pad and asked, “Why do you settle for this job?”

“What do you mean?”

Bruce didn’t meet his gaze, focusing on the pad of paper. “You could do just about anything. With your abilities, I don’t understand why you chose to be a reporter.”

“I can help people this way.”

“Writing stories on Little League teams and the new concessions at the stadium?”

Clark rolled his eyes. “I help others with their stories. The work they do is amazing. Ordinary people revealing the truth behind the people that run this country. Braving dangerous situations to shed light on the communities that need our help the most. Anything I can do to help them is worth it.”

“But you could be writing those stories, too.” Bruce looked to him, his eyes fierce and determined. “You could be a great reporter.” He gestured to the messy workstation before them. “You put all of this together.”

“So?”

“So?” Bruce’s temple pulsed. “You were working on a puff piece. You could have easily written a few paragraphs and called it a night. But you chose to spend hours researching instead. You liked it.”

Clark felt his temper flare in a way that only Bruce seemed to accomplish. “I just wanted to see if there was anything to it first.”

“And then what? You have to publish this story. You know something rotten is going on here and you can’t pretend you don’t. Even if you were that kind of person, and you’re not, the people of Metropolis deserve to know. Gosslar needs to be brought to justice.”

“We don’t even know what he’s doing.” He ran a tired hand through his hair. “And I wasn’t going to just ignore it.”

“You’re going to publish it?”

“I was going to give the story to Lois.”

That gave Bruce pause, his eyes widening ever so slightly. “Why?”

“This is more her speed. She writes about this kind of thing. The Mayor has done a lot for the university, the commissioner’s children attend the school. This could turn into a big scandal. That’s the kind of story she loves.”

“And so do you.” Bruce shook his head. “Why pass it on to someone else?”

“I don’t need the attention,” Clark said firmly. Bruce’s brow furrowed, but not in confusion, in confirmation. “You knew that.”

“I suspected. You clearly don’t spend a lot of money on yourself or your apartment. Most of what you make seems to go back to Smallville. You could make a lot more money if you reported on larger stories, but you don’t. I’ll admit, I thought it was because you weren’t incredibly skilled at all of this.” His eyes softened. “But you’re pretty great at it.”

“Found out your secret, didn’t I?” Bruce shook his head, almost fondly by the looks of it.

Bruce tapped his finger on the desk and returned to the screen. “You can give this story to Lois and continue hiding behind her name. If that’s really what you want to do.”

Sighing, Clark rested his cheek on Bruce’s shoulder once more. Then a thought occurred and his eyes widened. Reaching for the mouse, he clicked over to the newspaper’s archives. He reached under Bruce’s arms and typed in Gosslar’s name. A few articles came up and he scrolled through the pictures.

There, in every photo, “Mrs. Gosslar,” Clark breathed.

Bruce hummed, taking over the keyboard and pulling up marital records. “Maria Gosslar, formerly Maria Falcone.” He sounded almost disappointed and Clark kissed his cheek.

“It’s okay to be wrong once in a while.”

The corner of Bruce’s mouth turned up as he returned to scrolling through articles on the former marriage. “Maria divorced Oliver Falcone in early 2001. She wasted no time in marrying Frank Gosslar. How much do you want to bet a simple peek at her phone records shows several calls to her ex-husband?”

“We don’t look at phone records here, Bruce. It’s illegal.” Bruce rolled his eyes and Clark could see the gears turning in his head.

“Why didn’t I think of it?”

Laughing softly, Clark took in the small frown on his face and kissed the corner of his mouth. “You know men, they let their wives do all the work.” He watched Bruce scroll through a few more photos of Maria alongside her husband at charity functions. “It probably didn’t’ take much for her to convince him to let her take care of the fundraisers.”

Bruce hummed consideringly. When Clark turned to him, Bruce was watching rather closely. A spark ignited between them as Clark licked his lips, watching Bruce track the movement, his eyes hooded. Clark swallowed, heat coursing through him.

“I, uh… so, I’ll just do a simple briefing on it and give it to Lo. She’ll…” he trailed off as Bruce leaned in, “know what to do.”

Bruce’s hand came up behind his head as their lips touched. Lips parting, Clark welcomed him in with a soft sigh, taking Bruce’s tongue eagerly. Bruce pulled him forward and onto his lap, a strong arm coming up behind Clark’s back as they kissed. That familiar heat spread throughout Clark’s body as he found himself rocking his hips smoothly against Bruce’s. Groaning, Bruce took hold of his hips and rolled against him in response.

A particularly clever twist drew a moan from Clark’s lips and a hard thrust. He pulled back with a gasp, eyes opening dazedly. “You said no sex.”

Bruce nosed into his cheek, murmuring, “I did say that.” He opened his eyes, his pupils so dark, they appeared nearly black in the low lighting. “I wanted to get to know you better.” He leaned in and pressed his lips to the spot behind Clark’s ear. His voice low and husky, “What you like. What you don’t like.” Palming Clark’s stomach, his fingers played at one of the buttons. “You seem to like this.” He slipped one of the button’s free, Clark’s stomach tightening in response.

“I do,” Clark breathed as Bruce unbuttoned his shirt.

He pushed Clark back against the desk and started on his zipper. The chair slid closer, Bruce’s broad hands on Clark’s bare thighs as he pulled Clark’s briefs down and took hold of his own half hard cock. The sight of his mouth so close made Clark’s cock twitch in his grasp, a bead of precome dribbling out. Panting wetly over the head, Bruce lapped at it gently, his eyes closing in focus as he took more of Clark inside.

Clark was powerless to watch as more and more his length disappeared inside the tight sucking heat of Bruce’s mouth. Lips stretched wide around his girth, wet sounds meeting Clark’s ears as Bruce sucked and lapped hungrily at the head. Bruce was good at this; he was _skilled_ at this. Clark didn’t know everything about Bruce’s past lovers. It was possible Bruce had done this before.

And seemed to enjoy it. He let out a soft moan in pleasure, pulling off to stroke Clark’s length as he ran his tongue along the underside. He teased the slit for a moment, eyes locking with Clark’s as he engulfed the head once more. Clark’s eyes were hooded, his breathing growing heavier as his head fell back and he began to rock softly into Bruce’s mouth. Watching Bruce take every inch with ease.

His fingers found Bruce’s hair, messing up his perfect visage as he pulled him in closer. “Bruce, Bruce, I’m close.”

Moaning, Bruce worked faster, taking Clark down to the hilt. Buried deep inside Bruce’s mouth, Clark felt the heat coil tightly in his center, his toes curling as he bucked. His eyes cut to Bruce once more, taking in his intense focus, hips lips bruised and slick, stretched tight around Clark’s cock as he pushed inside.

“Bruce,” he cried out as Bruce’s lips pressed to his groan and Clark spilled down his throat. Bruce gripped his hips, holding tight as Clark’s eyes rolled back and he shook apart. Bruce sucked him down, swallowing around his length as Clark gave him everything he had to give, his thighs tensing through the aftershocks.

When Bruce came up for air, he stroked Clark gently, eyes locked on Clark’s face. Clark opened his eyes and once they focused, he stiffened. “Lois.”

Bruce frowned and Clark poked at his cheek, turning his head towards the door. Bruce blanched. “Shit.”

Lois stood in the doorway, wide eyed and flushed. Upon being noticed, she covered her eyes and turned around. “Oh, oh, I’m just – I was just coming in to work on my pitch for this afternoon. I can come back.”

Clark stood, hurrying to fasten his pants. “It’s – it’s fine. We were just… working on something.”

Lois covered a laugh. “Oh, I’ll bet.”

“I mean, we were just…” he trailed off, covering his face with his hands. “This is embarrassing.”

Bruce stood up and touched Clark’s back. Clark looked to him in apology. “I’m sorry. This must be the worst date ever.”

Bruce’s mouth curled in a smirk as he kissed the corner of Clark’s mouth. “On the contrary, I think it was one of the best dates I’ve ever had. Goodnight.” He started towards the exit, waving. “Ms. Lane.”

Lois waved after him before returning to Clark with wide eyes. Clark’s face burned. “I can explain.”

Her arm looped through his as she dragged him back towards his desk. “You’d better!”

+

“Now, this is how a suit is supposed to fit,” Bruce said, reaching around Clark’s shoulders and straightening his collar. In the mirror, Clark could see the soft fondness in his eyes. It warmed him from the inside out as he hid a smile.

They were in a private dressing room in the back of the tailor’s shop. Apparently, when you had as much money as Bruce Wayne, they’ll close the store for the day and serve champagne. The tailor, Marco, had left an hour ago after finishing with them and Clark had to admit, he did great work. The suit fit him perfectly, hugging his body well without constricting him. Nothing like the suits Clark bought off the rack in department stores.

Perhaps the best part was watching Bruce’s eyes trace over him appreciatively. The quiet intake of breath when he saw the finished product and the easy way he’d given Marco the rest of the day off a few moments later. Clark wasn’t sure if he wanted to be alone with Clark or the suit.

“Do I want to know how much this cost?”

“Probably not.” His chin rose, eying Clark steadily. “You’re worth it.”

A soft fluttering in Clark’s stomach as he smiled in response. “Is there a special occasion in mind?”

“You never know when I might need you to look pretty for another event.” He kissed the spot behind Clark’s ear, murmuring, “You clean up nice.”

“So I’ve been told.” He turned to face Bruce, admiring the suit he’d purchased for himself. Bruce looked just as comfortable in silk as he did in Kevlar and one day Clark would stop wondering what it said about him that he wasn’t sure which look he found more arousing. “So do you.”

He spread his hand over Bruce’s chest, listening to his heart beat faster in response. They were all alone in this dressing room the size of Clark’s apartment. It felt safe to lean in and press their lips together, to slip his tongue inside and push Bruce back a few steps towards the large scarlet couch in the center of the room.

Bruce fell back on it, gazing up at Clark with hooded eyes as Clark dropped to his knees. Bruce’s eyes darkened in realization and his breath caught. Clark gripped his thighs and nuzzled into his grain. Clark stroked his hand over his bulge, coaxing Bruce to fill his hand, hard and ready. Clever fingers slipped through his hair and scratched lightly at his scalp, waiting patiently. Clark mouthed at his cloth covered cock for a moment, just enjoying Bruce’s fingers in his hair and feeling his thighs tense in anticipation.

Clark liked being watched.

Finally, Clark unzipped his pants and pulled him out. Bruce was half hard, filling Clark’s hand. Thick and meaty, weighing nicely on Clark’s tongue. Swiped along the underside, Clark took his time getting Bruce hard for him. Stroking the length, lapping wetly at the head before mouthing softly along the shaft. More than the task, Clark enjoyed the little stifled gasps and hushed breaths escaping Bruce’s lips

His thumb played over the slit, smoothing precome around the head. Bruce was patient, his breath coming out quicker as Clark worked him tightly in his grasp. By the time Clark finally took the head inside, Bruce was dripping and barely stifling low curses and moans.

Smiling around the length, Clark sucked insistently at the head, dipping his tongue into the slit. He worked the shaft with his hand, bobbing his head and taking ore of Bruce inside. Clark quickly lost himself, his cock pressed insistently at the zipper as he reveled in the taste of Bruce on his tongue, the naughtiness of doing this in a dressing room. Dropping a hand to his own aching cock, Clark pressed down needfully as he kept his mouth busy. Bruce pulled him closer, the wet sounds of Clark’s mouth making his cheeks flush with embarrassment.

Bruce’s heart beat faster, his breath coming quicker as he began to shake and Clark knew he was close. He pulled off with a soft sigh, offering teasing kisses as he stroked Bruce firmly. Finally, he sucked Bruce down, smacking wetly at the head as Bruce’s thighs tensed and he came in soft spurts, filling Clark’s mouth.

“Clark,” he panted, hand tightening in Clark’s hair. His hips bucked, pushing into Clark’s mouth desperately. Clark took everything, swallowing and lapping up more of Bruce’s release hungrily.

Finally, Bruce pulled Clark into his lap and unzipped his pants, sliding his hand inside. Clark kissed his lips, panting into his mouth as Bruce brought him off embarrassingly fast. Clark came in thick ropes of come, his stomach tensing as his vision whited out and Bruce took his tongue.

Clark gasped, trying to pull up. “Your suit!”

Bruce paid him no mind, stroking him firmly, eyes caught on Clark’s face. When Clark was spent, he pulled his hand up and lapped at the mess. Groaning, Clark sat back in his lap with a sigh.

“It’s fine,” Bruce said, cleaning his hand. Clark’s cock gave a weak twitch in response.

“Is this going to be a regular thing with you?

He was referring to Bruce’s attraction to leaving him messy in public places but Bruce read something else into it. “Maybe. It’s going pretty well so far.”

“It is?” Clark hated the hopeful lift to his voice.

“Things have been… nice with you.” Bruce spoke as though the words were being pulled out of him in an interrogation. He forced himself to hold Clark’s gaze, his voice softening. “I like having you around.”

Clark warmed, more flustered than he’d been a few minutes ago. It said something about his life now that Bruce’s praise brought more of a flush to his cheeks than sex in public. “You do?”

Bruce nodded, his hand spreading across Clark’s stomach. His gaze fell to where his fingers were spread out, uncharacteristically hesitant. Clark swallowed, his voice rough. “Well, I like being here.”

Bruce eyed him for a moment before reaching up and pulling Clark into a kiss.

+

The holidays came and Clark spent his time in Smallville picking up Christmas gifts for his friends in the “big city”. After he took care of Lois and Jimmy, he bought gifts for Alfred and Bruce. His mother sent him off several pounds heavier and overladen with presents.

Lois gave him a hug and a kiss for the custom-made framed newspaper articles and two of Martha’s famous pies. Jimmy thanked him for the antique camera he’d found in a small antiques shop in town. He’d even bought Perry a scarf in his alma mater’s colors. He very much doubted the man would wear it but, it was the thought that counted.

Then, he dropped by Bruce’s office at lunch and strung lights around it. His assistant, Megan, Clark had come to learn, hid a laugh as he set about decorating: lights along the walls, small little gingerbread houses on her desk and a little snowman on Bruce’s. He’d even brought a small tree and set it in the corner. She left her post to help him decorate it.

When Bruce arrived, he took one look at the office and appeared as though he was strongly considering letting the elevator doors close and take him back to the lobby. Clark grinned and Bruce sighed, trudging forward.

“What is this?”

“It’s Christmas!” Clark exclaimed, thanking Megan as she returned to her desk.

“It’s December 3rd,” Bruce replied.

“You know what I mean,” Clark chided, placing a Santa hat on his head. Bruce glowered at him and Clark wished he’d thought to snap a photo. Alfred would never believe it.

Bruce stared at Clark’s gleaming smile and the lights around his office. “I take it you really like the holidays.”

“What’s not to love?” Clark gazed at his work. “When I was younger, this was the time when I got to stay home with my family and just… be a kid.”

“What do you mean?”

“School wasn’t easy for me. I mean, I got good grades and everything but, it was hard to pretend to be like all the other kids because I wasn’t. I came into my abilities gradually, not all at once. I’d get overwhelmed by the sounds of other people breathing, hear things going on miles away while I was trying to focus on a lecture. My mom had to keep me home the week my heat vision came in. It wasn’t safe.”

He cleared his throat. “But around the holidays, I never had to worry about that. It was just my family.” He took a deep breath, looking to Bruce. “What about you?”

Bruce averted his gaze. “It was just me and Alfred. Some years, we didn’t even put up a tree.”

Clark’s chest tightened and he tried to push past that dejected look on Bruce’s face. “Speaking of, I’ve got a gift for him.”

Alfred took one look at the mug Clark had bought him and laughed for ten minutes straight. Clark had found it in a gift shop in Smallville and just had to buy it. It was a Santa playing the saxophone with the Smallville logo on the back of it. Somehow, he’d known Alfred would appreciate it.

“This is absolutely wonderful. Thank you,” he said, accepting Clark’s hug.

Bruce watched the whole exchange with a strange look on his face. Finally, he started inside. When Clark stayed on the doorstep, he frowned.

“Aren’t you coming?”

“Oh, I, uh, I actually had some work to catch up on. I was out for a week.”

Bruce’s nose wrinkled, “I know that.”

He sounded displeased and Clark wasn’t entirely sure why. He’d been in Smallville for five days and he hadn’t seen Bruce for a week before that, too. This was the first time he’d seen him in nearly two weeks. Sometimes Bruce was just a grumpy old man. God help Clark, he’d grown fond of him regardless.

“Don’t mind him. You will stay for dinner someday soon?” Alfred asked and Clark smiled in return.

“Of course. Name the day.”


	6. Chapter 6

When Bruce finally extended Alfred’s invitation to dinner, Clark accepted. The night of, he raced around his apartment trying to put together a nice outfit and talk his mother off the phone before the world’s fastest man found himself late for dinner.

“Clark, you bring them something. Wine or flowers. I don’t want them thinking you had no home training.”

_Flowers?_

“Ma, I don’t know.”

“It’s the polite thing to do, sweetheart.”

“Do you really buy a man flowers?”

“You’re an invited guest. It’s just good manners.” A pause. “You really like this guy, huh?”

Clark tensed, studying a paint speck on his cabinets. “Yes, I do.” He took a deep breath turning around and leaning against the counter. This wasn’t a conversation he was ready to have. His stomach twisted into knots as he looked to the picture of him with her at graduation. “Listen, Ma… it’s not exactly dinner. Well, it is but…”

“It’s a date,” Ma supplied warmly, the smile in her voice calming him instantly. “I figured. You never have any time to call your old mother anymore. The last time you got that wrapped up in someone, it was Lois. Well, come to think of it,” a soft intake of breath, “it’s him, isn’t it?”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s the one you’ve been chasing the past year? The one you’ve been researching and spending all your time on?”

Clark had promised. But, it wasn’t like he’d told her. She guessed all on her own. “He’s not who I thought he was. He’s… it’s complicated.”

A pause. “Well, I trust your judgement. I just want to make sure you’re being safe. If you think he’s not trying to hurt you— “

“He’s not. Not anymore.”

“Okay, okay.” She took a deep breath. “I just want you to be safe. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

“I know, Ma,” he replied, his throat tightening. “Me, too.” The clock on his microwave flashed with the changing hour. “I gotta go. I love you.”

“I love you, too. Let me know how it goes. Talk to you soon.”

Clark hung up and took a deep breath. She’d asked the same questioned he’d asked himself. More than once. He truly believed Bruce had changed, that this wasn’t a rather unorthodox way to control him. When Bruce said he enjoyed having him around, Clark believed him.

Glancing at the clock, he cursed once again.

Alfred opened the door and his eyebrows shot up. Politely hiding an amused smile as he greeted him. “Evening, Mr. Kent. I was beginning to suspect he’d chased you away.”

He took the bouquet and stood back to let Clark enter. Bruce was in the foyer, the corner of his mouth quirking when he caught sight of the flowers. Clark’s face warmed as he approached. Bruce touched his lower back, leaning in to kiss his cheek. Clark caught the fondness in Alfred’s eye as Bruce steered him towards the dining room.

“My Ma thought it would be nice and I was already late. Didn’t’ want to show up empty handed, too.”

“No, no, they’re nice.”

There were candles lit in the dining room. The table was set for two and Clark frowned at Alfred. “Aren’t you joining us?”

“Oh, I—" Alfred looked to Bruce who nodded. “If you insist.”

Clark jumped up to help, ignoring Alfred’s objections. Alfred brought out the first course, a leafy green salad. He served Bruce and Clark and nearly forgot to serve himself. Clark offered him the bowl with a smile.

Alfred returned it, setting the bowl down. “I’ll admit, this is a little odd for me.”

“Bruce never feeds you?” Bruce narrowed his eyes at him but there was no heat behind it.

“He never feeds himself, mind you.” Bruce took a sip of wine, ignoring them both. “Let’s just say, it’s been a while since we’ve hosted any dinners at the manor.”

“I thought – there were some articles about parties here,” Clark said.

Alfred looked to Bruce who frowned. “I had to keep up appearances. We’ve had people over in the past. This is the first – you’re the first who’s been here in a while.”

“I’m honored.”

Alfred sipped his wine with a smirk. “You say that now.”

“Alfred,” Bruce chided.

“He will learn in due time, Master Bruce.” He stood up to bring out the main course, petting Clark’s shoulder on his way out.

Bruce shook his head, muttering, “Pain in my ass.”

“I like him. He reminds me of my Ma.” At Bruce’s question, “He really knows you.”

“I suppose.”

“He just wants you to be happy.” Clark reached out and took his hand, squeezing it once. “It’s nice.”

“There’s that word again. ‘Nice’,” Bruce noted with a fond shake of the head.

He started to say more when Alfred returned with the roast chicken. He took in their hands without comment, though his gaze softened ever so slightly. He set the food down and began serving. Clark left their joined hands on the table.

“Was he complaining about me again?” Alfred asked.

“Of course not,” Clark replied politely. Clearing his throat, he started in on his food. “I was just telling Bruce that you remind me of my Ma in some ways.” He looked to Bruce, “She wants to meet you, by the way.”

“Me?” Bruce asked and, if Clark wasn’t mistaken, this was the first time Bruce appeared genuinely shocked.

“Yes, you.”

“Why?”

It stung a bit. Clark took a sip of wine and chose his words carefully. “We’ve been spending a lot of time together. She’s always been interested in my… friends,” he finished awkwardly.

Alfred gave Bruce a pointed look. Bruce didn’t seem to see it. ‘What exactly have you told her about me?”

“Nothing, nothing, just…” he scratched the back of his head. “Just that we’ve been spending time together. That’s all.”

“You and…” Bruce trailed off leadingly. “Does she know about Batman?”

Clark winced. “She knows your name.” Bruce stared at him. “She’s very intuitive.”

“Christ.”

“It’s not that hard to put two and two together,” Alfred interjected. “His mother kept him hidden for years. It wasn’t until that business in New York that he became known to the public. I’d say she knows a great deal about keeping secrets.”

Bruce wiped his mouth and stood from the table. Alfred sighed and leaned back in his chair, wine glass in hand. Clark watched Bruce leave the room silently, his stomach in knots. He looked to Alfred who offered a small smile.

“Not to worry, Mr. Kent. He’s temperamental, that one.” He pet Clark’s hand. “He’ll get over it.”

Clark heard the door close solidly upstairs and sighed. He stood up to help as Alfred started clearing the table. “One of these days, we’ll get through a full meal without him being a drama queen. Mark my words, Mr. Kent.”

Clark opened Bruce’s door slowly, poking his head inside. Bruce was sitting on the bed, his back to the door as he pulled off his shoes. Upon hearing the door, he sighed heavily.

“Bruce – “

“I’m not mad.” Clark froze, his hand on the doorknob. “I’m not.”

Clark entered and closed the door behind him and padded over quietly on the hardwood floor. Bruce looked up at him silently before Clark sat down next to him, studying the wall before them.

After some time, Clark whispered, “It kind of seems like you are mad.” Bruce grumbled. “You stormed out before dessert.”

“I’m not mad. I’m just…”

“Disappointed?”

“Confused,” Bruce corrected with a quirk of the lips. There was a spark in his eye that calmed Clark. He’d been seeing it more and more these days and every time, Clark felt like doing a victory dance. “I don’t know why it just didn’t occur to me that you would tell her about me.”

Clark studied his hands. “Not on purpose. She knew I’d been spending my time with someone. She asked a few questions and… well, I tell her everything.”

“You tell her everything,” Bruce repeated, studying him wondrously.

Clark’s chest tightened in sympathy and he took Bruce’s hand. He rested his cheek on Bruce’s shoulder as he studied their hands, tracing his fingers over the lines of Bruce’s palm. “She wants to meet you because you make me happy.”

“And she knows everything?”

“For the most part, yes.”

“She knows what I almost did,” he said slowly and Clark met his eyes. There was a guardedness in them that gave Clark pause. He nodded. “And she still let you come here?”

“She didn’t ground me, if that’s what you’re asking.” Bruce rolled his eyes as Clark kissed his cheek. “She was concerned at first but, she trusts my judgment. And I trust you.”

Bruce’s eyes widened, his hand tightening around Clark’s. “You do?” Clark nodded firmly. Instead of comforting Bruce, it made him avert his gaze. It set Clark back, his stomach twisting nervously. “So, you think this is going somewhere?”

Clark’s breath caught as Bruce looked to him silently. Clark stumbled over a response. “I, uh… yes. I hope so. Don’t you?” he asked dazedly.

Bruce blinked, his breathing calm. Finally, he stood, crossing to the window. “I didn’t’ plan any of this. When I met you, my mind was made up. He slipped his hands into his pockets, his voice lowering. “Then I kissed you and that changed everything. I thought I had found a way to control you. Then you found out about that. I thought it was back to square one, but the strangest thing happened.”

He huffed out a laugh, shaking his head. “You stayed. Kept coming back despite the fact that it didn’t make any sense. You don’t have the best sense of self-preservation. I don’t know that you ever did. Alfred convinced me to give this a try. To make a real effort and now… your mother wants to meet me.”

He turned around, an unreadable look in his eye. He came to stand in front of Clark, his hands landing on his shoulders before they slid up to cup Clark’s face. He traced his thumb gently over his cheek. As nervous as he was, the soft touch calmed some of Clark’s nerves. He’d never seen such a tender look on Bruce’s face, his hands gentler than ever before.

“If you think this is a good idea, I’m all in.”

He stroked Clark’s cheek, a tentative smile spreading across his face. The sight alone took Clark’s breath away, his heart beating fast in his chest. Bruce tipped Clark’s chin up, leaning down. Clark’s arms wrapped around his waist as their lips touched. Clark’s mouth fell open, his breathing hushed as Bruce’s tongue slipped inside. Every soft slide of their tongues, every soft suck igniting the fire in Clark’s belly.

Bruce held him close, the kiss growing hungrier with every breath. With a low groan, Bruce pushed at his shoulders, climbing over as Clark fell back on the bed. His hips rocked forward, a soft moan escaping Clark’s lips. Bruce unbuttoned his shirt, straddling Clark with a spark in his eye. His shirt came off and he quickly started on his pants. Clark took in the bare skin with a smile, heat coiling in his center. He lay back and let Bruce pull his sweater over his head. Bruce nosed into his throat, nipping at the spot behind his ear.

Clark arched beneath him, hands tightening on Bruce’s hips. Bruce nipped and sucked at his throat, running his hand down Clark’s chest as he writhed and shivered, the feel of the smooth sheets at his back unlike anything he’d felt before. His pants came off, crumpled on the floor along with the rest of their clothes.

They’d never done this in Bruce’s bed before and that fact wasn’t lost on Clark. Bare and spread out on silk sheets, Clark had never felt more like prey. Bruce rose above him, watchful eyes eating up every inch of Clark’s body, mind working as if he was plotting his attack. Bruce pulled a small bottle from his bedside drawer, kneeling between Clark’s legs. He dropped a kiss to the inside of Clark’s thigh before turning him over and resting on his stomach.

Clark’s question was answered the moment he felt warm breath misting over his skin. Tensing, he waited as Bruce gently spread his cheeks and lapped firmly over his entrance. Breath catching, Clark held still as Bruce lapped at him repeatedly, keeping him in position. It was the strangest sensation, warm and curiously wet. It certainly wasn’t unpleasant. He stretched his arms overhead, holding tight to the sheets as Bruce nosed in hungrily. He pulled Clark further back on his tongue, the tip dipping inside as Clark’s cock hung heavy and wet between his thighs.

With a wet suck, Clark cried out, his thighs spreading of their own accord. As skilled at this as he was at anything else, Bruce took Clark apart with his tongue. With a broken moan, Clark fell to the pillows beneath him, chasing more of that clever tongue splitting him open. His cock pulsed desperately, precome dribbling down to the sheets. He wondered if he could come, just like this. His spine melting into liquid metal as Bruce guided him with his hands, burying his tongue as far inside as he could manage with Clark writhing wantonly in his grasp.

A soft graze of teeth along the rim drew a soft gasp from Clark’s lips. In the silence, he could hear the low rumbling moans Bruce failed to stifle. The soft slap of skin against skin as he stroked his cock, the slick wet sounds of his mouth working. The soft lapping of his tongue over the most intimate area of Clark’s body.

Clark moaned in disappointment as Bruce pulled away with a curse. His hand slowed, a palm resting on Clark’s cheek as he heard the soft snikt of the bottle cap. Stomach tightening in anticipation, Clark waited, his cock bobbing heavily between his thighs.

Bruce dropped a kiss to his lower back, his voice gravelly and thick. “Do you know how many times I imagined you here?” A slick finger pressed at Clark’s messy wet entrance, slipping in so seamlessly that Clark flushed in embarrassment. It didn’t stop the desperate roll of his hips, swallowing Bruce’s finger greedily. Bruce cursed breathily, lashes fluttering over Clark’s skin as he pumped his finger slowly. “Spread out in my bed, taking my fingers like you were made for them.”

“I don’t know,” he answered breathily, shuddering in pleasure as Bruce slipped another thick finger inside. “A few days.”

Bruce crooked his fingers, pressing in deep as Clark keened and pushed back for more. “Months.”

He pumped his fingers insistently, working up to a third. It still wasn’t enough. Even as he kissed Clark’s thigh, fingers curling delightfully. Clark was on a hair trigger, biting down the needy moans threatening to escape. Much longer and he would be willing to beg. Bruce worked focusedly, working his fingers deep inside, sucking a mark into Clark’s lower back. Clark was so loose, too far gone to be embarrassed over the slick wet sounds of Bruce’s fingers spreading him open. His thighs spread as far as they could as he moaned openly, pushing back wantonly to take as much of Bruce’s fingers as he could get.

Those fingers dipped inside and brushed his prostate, sliding solidly over it on the next thrust and Clark saw stars. “Bruce,” he cried out, his cheek pressed to the silk pillows as he shook, his cock pulsing threateningly. Bruce groaned, heart skipping a beat as he waited for Clark to settle. “I can’t – I’m so close.” Bruce plunged his fingers deep inside again, seeking out that spot. “Bruce,” he pleaded, a low whine escaping. Bruce brushed over that spot again, insistently, again and again until Clark’s eyes snapped shut.

His cock pulsed painfully hard, stars going off behind his eyelids as he came in thick white ropes across his chest and the sheets below. His hands closed tight in the sheets, a loud rip sounding as he spilled, Bruce’s name on his tongue. Bruce’s breathing grew heavier, his fingers working as he drew more and more from Clark’s aching cock.

The sheets beneath Clark’s face were moist, his lashes wet as he opened them to the dim light of Bruce’s bedroom. His heart beat fast in his chest, breathing heavy as Bruce slicked himself and pressed the blunt head of his cock to Clark’s entrance. One hand came down to intertwine his fingers with Clark’s, squeezing tight as he guided himself inside.

Clark’s vision whited out, the thick length stretching him open beautifully wide. Clark’s eyes closed, a breathy moan escaping. “Fuck,” he tightened around Bruce’s length, his cock pulsing painfully, arousal coursing through his blood. His eyes rolled back as he rolled his hips needfully.

Bruce kissed the spot behind his ear with a breathy laugh. “I found a flaw.” He pushed in deep, filling Clark to the brim. “You can be greedy.”

He took up a steady rhythm, filling Clark in sharp, deep thrusts that left him half hard and aching in no time at all. He gave up control; letting Bruce hold him up as he fucked him. He’d always loved Bruce’s fingers but his cock was so much thicker, left him deliciously full and mindless. The rest of the room fading away until there was nothing but the slick slide of the silk beneath him, Bruce’s soft grunts, the possessive hold around his waist, and Bruce’s cock buried deep inside of him. Clark felt it in the pit of his stomach, like Bruce was trying to carve out a place for himself.

“M’not greedy,” Clark panted, squeezing his fingers tight around Bruce’s.

Bruce hummed, lips brushing his ear. “I think so. I think I could keep you here and bring you off several more times and you’d do whatever I said. Be my little pet.” He reached down and took hold of Clark’s cock. He was so hard it was almost incriminating, jerking wetly in Bruce’s grip as his stomach tightened. Bruce stroked him firmly, fucking him in time. “You like my fingers inside you. You like my cock. Can’t get enough of it.”

“I like it when you know what to do with it,” Clark replied, patience growing thin. Bruce was avoiding his prostate and he wasn’t sure why.

Bruce curled over him, his sweaty chest pressed to Clark’s back. Now, Clark felt everything: every inhale, every pulse of Bruce’s cock, every tense of his stomach. They moved as one body, Bruce stretched over him like a second skin. His heart thumped hard and fast, felt throughout Clark’s body.

It was gradual, a slow burn erupting in Clark’s center and spreading outward. His toes curled, his thighs tensed as Bruce filled him over and over again, his muscles tightening like he could do this all day. And a part of Clark very much wanted him to. Because Bruce was right: Clark would love nothing more than to spend the rest of his life spread out in this bed making a mess of himself while Bruce fucked him sloppy and wet, kept him happy and full.

He’d love nothing more than to make this his new life’s purpose, but Bruce had been keeping him on edge and Clark wanted so very much to come.

And judging by the teasing tone in Bruce’s voice, he knew that. Clark was at a loss: Bruce had never done this before. Even when they’d been closer to enemies, Bruce hadn’t withheld pleasure.

Clark tried politeness. “Please,” he begged.

“Just a little bit longer,” Bruce replied, his hips snapping forward roughly and earning a rough groan.

“Bruce,” he pleaded.

Another thrust drew a whine. Bruce’s heart pumped steadily, as though he was waiting for something. It was then that Clark understood.

With a growl and a burst of motion, he flipped them. Pushing back and slamming Bruce down on the bed with a hand on his chest. Bruce gazed up at him, head falling back as Clark hovered over his cock for a brief moment, lining Bruce up and sinking down slowly.

Eyes shut, a grateful moan falling from his lips as he took Bruce deeper than he ever had. Bruce shivered, cock pulsing within as Clark started to rise up. He wanted to go slow, to savor Bruce’s soft pants and the way his hands tightened needfully on Clark’s hips. He wanted to go slow but that overarching need was drawing him in, pushing him to go faster and faster, riding Bruce for all he was worth. He took hold of Bruce’s hands and held them tight to the bed as he rose and fell. His hard cock slapped against Bruce’s stomach as he chased his orgasm, finding that angle that made him shudder and shake.

Bruce groaned, arching beneath him as he rasped, “Needy little thing.” Clark nodded absently, rolling his hips fluidly as he pushed down. “Come for me.”

Gasping, Clark rode him harder, the headboard slapping against the wall as his cock pulsed and spilled across Bruce’s stomach and chest, his rim tightening around Bruce’s cock. Cursing, Bruce bucked in response, burying himself deep inside as he filled Clark to the brim. Messy and wet, Clark rode it out, keeping them both on edge as Bruce shook apart.

When he slowed, he opened his eyes to find Bruce watching him dazedly. Clark panted, his heart still beating painfully fast in his chest. He climbed off carefully, too tired to bother trying to clean up as Bruce reached down and pulled the covers over them.

He kissed Clark’s cheek, the corner of his mouth and his forehead before resting on his side. Clark gazed into his eyes for a moment, trying to decipher the soft look on his face. It was one he’d see before but never this intent. Clark was well worn out and relaxed in a way he’d never been before. He rested his cheek on the cool surface of the pillow.

“You wore me out.”

Bruce’s eyes glittered with pride. “I did.”

“That’s virtually impossible.” He closed his eyes with a frown. “I don’t want to move.”

“So, don’t.”

He reached out and Clark heard the quiet rustling of sheets before his hand touched Clark’s cheek. Clark opened his eyes as Bruce traced his thumb over his bottom lip. Clark kissed it gently. A thought occurred.

“There’s no way Alfred didn’t hear us.”

“I’m sure he put in earplugs.”

Clark was too tired to be embarrassed now. “I’ll be embarrassed about that tomorrow.”

Bruce studied him for a moment before pulling Clark into his arms. Laughing, Clark nosed into his throat and relaxed. “Go to sleep.”

Clark slowly drifted off.

It would occur to him later that this was the first time he’d ever slept with Bruce.

+

Most mornings found Clark rushing to get ready because he’d overslept or returned home from solving a crisis around the world. This morning, he awoke with a curse because he’d slept over at Bruce’s the night before and he could hear the chiming of the clock downstairs. That, plus the sunlight streaming in through the window, meant Clark was about to be very, very late for work.

He started to roll out of bed when Bruce’s arm dropped across his waist. Freezing, Clark looked to Bruce who had taken to lying on top of Clark very pointedly. Smiling, Clark carded his fingers through his hair, indulging him for a minute. His hair was matted to one side, mouth turned down at the corners as he slept. It was nice.

Clark felt a thought invade. _I would wake up to this every day if I could._

“Bruce,” he called out softly, playfully yanking on Bruce’s hair. “Bruce, I have to get ready for work.”

Bruce ignored him as long as he could before he opened one eye and rasped, “Stay here.”

“I have a job.”

“I’ll pay you.” Clark laughed and Bruce seemed rather affronted. “I can triple your annual pay plus benefits.”

“You’re offering to pay me a salary to stay in bed with you? I’d be entering a new and very old line of business if I did that.” Bruce stared at him plainly and Clark felt that familiar warmth bloom in his chest. “Your assistant would be on the phone with Cat Grant before I even left the elevator.”

He climbed out from under Bruce and searched the floor for his other shoe. He’d have to take a shower first. Bruce sat up with a soft glare. Although, with his hair a mess and his chest covered in love bites, it’d lost quite a bit of its usual heat.

He watched silently as Clark bustled around gathering his clothes. Then, “I don’t care.”

“What?” Clark asked, ducking under the bed to retrieve his sock. This was the third time he’d slept over and he could have sworn there was a sock stealing creature living under Bruce’s furniture.

“I don’t care if people know.”

“You don’t?” Clark asked, poking his head out from under the bed skirt. Bruce sighed, watching amusedly as Clark kneeled before him. Under different circumstances, this position would lead to something else entirely. “I thought you wanted to keep this a secret?”

“I was waiting for you to come up with a solution for Luthor.”

Blinking, Clark asked, “Me?”

“Well, I could do things my way but I figured you wouldn’t like that.”

Clark sat back on his heels, his chest tightening. Bruce cared about what he thought? “That’s… thank you,” he said sincerely. Bruce stared at him before falling back into bed. Glancing at the clock on the nightstand, Clark sighed. “I really do have to go.”

Bruce’s head turned, watching as Clark padded over to the adjoining bathroom. His mind racing as he tried to focus on trying to keep Perry from killing him before Lex got the chance.

He started the shower and climbed in. Hot water rained over him as he rested his palms against the stone wall with a pleasurable sigh. His hair matted down to his head, head clearing for a moment as he stood there, water trailing down his back.

The door opened and a warm body pressed to his back, bringing a smile to his face. Strong hand glided over his chest, Bruce’s lips brushing his shoulder. “Bruce, I mean it, I have to go.”

“I’m not stopping you,” he murmured, his hand sliding over Clark’s stomach and between his legs. Gasping, Clark’s head fell back as Bruce took him under again.

When Clark arrived at work, Lois met him at the elevator. She walked with him to the bullpen, passing over a coffee.

“You’re a lifesaver,” he breathed, taking a grateful sip.

“How is it the world’s fastest man has been late three times in the past two weeks?”

Clark’s face burned as he sat down at his desk. She leaned against the edge, crossing her arms as she studied him expectantly. “I was… busy.”

“Sure.”

“With… work.”

“Sure.”

“It won’t happen again.”

Lois shook her head with a smile. “You’re really happy, huh?”

Her tone gave him pause. “Yes,” he answered slowly. “I think so.”

She poked his cheek playfully. “You’ve been walking around here in a daze for a few months now. Before, you seemed sad but now… it’s like you’ve found confidence from somewhere. You even speak up in meetings now. You pitch stories that aren’t completely terrible.”

Clark glared, taking a stubborn sip of coffee. “Maybe I’m just settling in here.”

“It’s been a little over two years, Clark. You think you would have settled.” She bit her lip, tapping her fingers on the desk. “It’s him, isn’t it?”

Clark averted his gaze. He nodded once. “Well, it’s certainly unorthodox but if he makes you happy, I’m happy.” He looked to her, a soft smile on his face. “I’m just trying to look out for you, Smallville.”

Clark pulled her into a hug. “Thanks, Lo.”

She squeezed him tight. “Enjoy this moment while it lasts because as soon as Perry leaves his office, I’ll pretend I don’t know you. He’s on a warpath and your story on last night’s football game is late.”

She left in a haze of perfume and red hair, leaving Clark sputtering after her in a panic.

+

One night, Clark came over for dinner and followed Bruce up to his room.

Clark was surprised to find that Bruce had no intention of taking him to bed. Well, he did but, when Clark watched him pull a book off of his bedside table, Clark actually sighed in relief.

Bruce misread it, looking to him hesitantly. “I’m sorry, it’s just that I’m exhausted. I’m jetlagged and I haven’t slept in thirty hours.”

Clark held out his hands, shaking his head. “No, no, I’m tired, too.”

He stepped out of his pants and padded over, pulling off his shirt as he went. Bruce welcomed him in against his chest, kissing his temple. “You really mean that?”

“Really,” Clark replied, closing his eyes. Breathing in Bruce’s scent, he felt himself start to relax.

Bruce stroked his chest, his chin resting on Clark’s head as he read. It was nice. Quiet. Clark started to drift off when curiosity led him to see what Bruce was reading. It was another book in Arabic and Bruce was about a third of the way through, reading with no trouble whatsoever.

“Do you know a lot of languages?”

Bruce laughed quietly. “A few.”

“Español?”

“Si.”

“Italiano?”

“Sì.”

“Français?”

“Un peut.”

“Nihonjin?”

“Are you going to ask me about every language under the sun?” Bruce asked, stroking his chest gently. “I know several. I’m fluent in eight.”

“Schools?”

“And… extracurriculars, as you put it.” He turned the page, his voice rumbling through Clark’s body where he rested against him. “Language is information.”

Clark shook his head, closing his eyes. His heart beat faster as he steeled himself for a moment. “My name is Kal-El.” Bruce paused in petting him, his lips pressed to Clark’s temple. “My parents sent me here to protect me. There was an entire planet full of people like me.”

“Zod was one of them.”

Clark’s stomach twisted painfully. “He was. He wanted to save them. To – start over on a new planet. I know what I had to do but… I’ll never truly know who I am now. I am the last of my kind.”

Bruce shifted, moving to get a better look at Clark’s face. His eyes were sharp, his voice firm. “That may be so but you know who you are. No one, nothing, not DNA, not your blood, not your family, no one can tell you who you are. Only you decide that.”

Clark’s eyes warmed, his cheek pressed to Bruce’s chest. “And if I don’t know who I am?”

Bruce held his gaze, his mouth a thin line. Finally, he kissed Clark’s forehead, his nose, and then his lips. “You’ll figure it out.” He reached over and turned out the lamp, setting his book beside it. “Right now, you’re a very sleepy Kryptonian keeping my bed warm.”

He nosed into Clark’s cheek with a sigh.

+

Most mornings were a struggle to escape Bruce’s arms.

If he didn’t value his appendages, Clark might even call him clingy. Bruce took Clark trying to leave the bed as a personal affront and used everything in his arsenal to keep him there. Entangling their legs, sleeping on top of him, he never had a problem resorting to bribery. The problem was, Clark found it as adorable as it was tempting. He’d love nothing more than to spend a day in bed with Bruce.

But he had a job.

“Bruce,” he whined, pushing lightly at the weight on top of him. “I have a job to get to.”

“You have a job right here,” Bruce grumbled, rocking against him sluggishly and Clark stifled a laugh.

“I have to go.”

“You have time off you haven’t used.”

“How do you know that?”

“I know you,” he muttered, the words warming Clark.

“What would I do here all day?”

“Relax. Eat. Knowing you, help Alfred around the house.”

“And all with the added benefit of letting you keep your body pillow for a few extra hours.”

“Now you’re getting it.”

Clark sighed, relaxing into the warm pocket they’d found beneath the covers. It was cold outside, a few inches of snow on the ground and just the thought of touching his feet to the cold floor below made him consider Bruce’s offer.

It had been a while since he’d taken time off. He’d been late quite a few times but he’d shown up, he’d made up his time. He even stayed late quite a few days. It would be nice to just take a day and stay in.

And Bruce was right: he did have the time.

“Even so, I have to call in if I’m not going in.” Bruce cursed, reaching over to the bedside table. He knocked over an earpiece and his phone before he settled on Clark’s. He handed it over and promptly fell back to sleep. Laughing, Clark carded his fingers through Bruce’s hair and dialed Perry’s number.

When he was done, he set the phone down on the table and followed Bruce under.

Clark awoke to wet warmth wrapped around his cock. He thought it was a dream, turning his face into the cool pillow at his head with a smile. There was a tight suck, his length engulfed in heat and Clark’s eyes opened with a moan. Pushing the covers down, he found Bruce in his lap, sucking his cock ardently.

“Christ,” Clark breathing, arching slowly.

Bruce must’ve been working for quite some time because Clark felt a few moments away from spilling down his throat. Bruce slurped and smacked at the head, stroking him tightly. Clark started to lose his head, eyes rolling back. His fingers pushed into Bruce’s hair as he moaned.

“Master Bruce, breakfast is on the table.”

Clark stiffened, heart beating faster as he pushed at Bruce’s head. Bruce didn’t seem to have heard, his brow furrowed in concentration as he took Clark into his throat. Sparks went off, Clark’s nerves on fire as he tried to pull away.

“Bruce,” he hissed, his chide turning into a moan as Bruce swallowed around his length.

“And do invite Mr. Kent. It would be terribly impolite not to.”

His footsteps sounded on the stairs as Bruce swallowed once more and Clark spilled hot and wet down his throat. He covered his face in mortification, falling back against the pillows. Bruce came up with a smile, wiping at the corner of his mouth. He rested his chin on Clark’s stomach, watching him silently.

“I hate you,” Clark muttered. Bruce laughed, kissing his lower stomach teasingly. “I really do.”

Clark came down for breakfast while Bruce showered. He was rehearsing what he’d say to Alfred because an apology didn’t seem to cut it. There was a chance Alfred didn’t know what they’d gotten up to upstairs.

He sat down at the breakfast table with a nervous smile. “Good morning, Alfred.”

“Good morning, Mr. Kent,” he greeted, waving a spatula. He poured some eggs into the skillet, turning the fire down. “Fascinating story about this house, if you have the time.”

“I do,” Clark said, leaning forward.

“They started construction in 1810. Several changes, renovations, additions, what have you, have transpired since then. Changes with the trends, necessity, the addition of more offices, closet space, nurseries.” He added some tomatoes, spinach and vegetables to the sizzling pan. “One thing never really changed over the years. Can you guess?”

“No,” he answered honestly.”

Alfred turned the stove off, transferring one perfect omelet to a plate and passing it over to Clark. “Thin walls.” Clark blushed, face burning even as he took in the quiet mirth in Alfred’s eyes.

“Alfred, I’m so sorry.”

“For which time?” he asked with a laugh. Clark covered his face with a groan. “Don’t worry about it. I’m pleased you’re both… enamored with each other. Although, I do wish you’d be a little quieter about it.”

“I’m so sorry,” he said again as Alfred started out of the room, muttering to himself.

“Or at least give me a heads up. If that’s not too much trouble.”

Bruce entered the kitchen, dressed in a pristine black suit, his hair combed perfectly. Clark gaped at him, chewing on a piece of bacon.

“Hey!”

Bruce poured some coffee in a travel mug, sparing Clark a wink before he closed the lid on it. “Good morning.”

“Where do you think you’re going?”

Bruce gestured to his suit, his voice light. “Context clues.”

“You told me to stay home today.”

“You look tired. You’ve stayed late every day for the past week.” He moved over to where Clark sat at the table, an unapologetic look on his face.

“I thought you were staying here.”

“Oh, no. I’ve got a job.”

Clark glared at him. “You’ll be hearing about this later.”

Bruce smiled, kissing his forehead and murmuring, “I’m counting on it.” He stole another kiss and started towards the hall, passing Alfred as he went.

Clark took his omelet, a strange thought occurring. In his own way, Bruce was looking out him. In his own, infuriating way. Leaning back in his chair, Clark watched Alfred pour himself a cup of coffee in the jazz Santa mug.

Smiling, Clark asked, “Alfred, where are you from originally?”


	7. Chapter 7

In the end, it was a stolen moment that brought everything to light.

Clark came into work late one morning. Bruce kept late hours, which meant he came up for bed a few hours before Clark had to get ready for work. That morning, Clark had tried to slide out of bed when Bruce draped himself across his body like a cat and promptly fell back to sleep. When Clark tried his usual technique, hugging Bruce tight to him and then rolling him to the side, Bruce found a cleverer way to get him to stay in bed.

By the time Clark was fully dressed and downstairs, Clark was already late. He took the travel mug Alfred prepared for him and took off. He hoped Perry was too caught up in work that he wouldn’t notice Clark was late for the twelfth time in the past two months.

When he arrived, he’d lucked out because everyone was too focused on their own work to pay him any attention. He quietly headed to his desk and set down his coffee and his bag. He booted up his computer, waited the obligatory two minutes for it to pull up the login page. No matter how many time Bruce offered, Clark refused to let him buy him a new laptop.

He'd just opened his email when Lois rushed over in a flurry, flustered and incredibly surprised to see him.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“Working?” Lois grabbed his arm and pulled him backwards, her eyes cutting to the rest of the room. Upon looking at them closer, Clark realized he hadn’t slipped in unnoticed. In fact, everyone was staring at him not so subtly. “Lois, what are you doing?”

Lois pulled him into the same closet Bruce had brought him to all most months ago and the thought brought a flush to his cheeks. She pushed a lock of her hair behind her ear and pulled out her phone. “I can’t believe you haven’t heard. Bruce didn’t call?”

“Bruce?”

“Here,” she said, handing him her phone.

She’d pulled up Cat Grant’s gossip blog. Clark made a point of not visiting this site but Lois seemed pretty upset. He stared at the screen for a minute in confusion. There was a grainy photo of… something. He blew it up larger as Lois let out a small sound and stepped back a little. In enlarging, Clark could make out an image of two people: one sitting on a couch and the other kneeling on the floor. Blushing, Clark scrolled down further and –

“Oh my god,” he croaked.

 _That was him!_ His face, clear as day, glasses in place as he took Bruce into his mouth. Everything from his eyes closed in pleasure, his lips stretched tight around Bruce’s cock, his hand dipping into his own pants – it all painted a very clear picture.

Clark was mortified.

But at the same time, “Why is this news?” Lois stared at him blankly. “I’m a nobody. Who cares what I do?”

“Keep scrolling.”

Scrolling down, there were more pictures. One that made Clark wonder if he always looked that wanton and needy. Another that made him wonder just where the camera had been. Then, at the bottom of the page, a picture of what had been one of the sweetest moments of Clark’s life.

Turned into a nightmare.

A picture of Bruce cupping Clark’s face as they kissed, a clear enough shot that it was unmistakable who this was.

 _I like having you around_.

Clark shook the memory away, his throat tight as he read the caption. _“Has Bruce Wayne been recruited by the other team? It appears Gotham’s Most Eligible Billionaire is willing to do just about anything (or anyone) for a kind word in the press. The unknown boy toy pictured above is none other than Daily Planet Reporter, Clark Kent. Certainly not the billionaire’s usual type. One can only assume Gotham’s prince has an ulterior motive.”_

Clark handed the phone back as though he’d been burned, bile rising in his throat. His eyes clenched shut in pain. It wasn’t just the fear of what this would mean and what people would think – _oh god, Ma_ – it was the story behind it. The assumption that a good story was the only reason someone like Bruce Wayne would look twice at someone like him.

Of course, Cat didn’t know his secret. If she did, this would be a completely different story. But even so, hadn’t this whole thing started with Bruce hating him? Then it became a way for Bruce to control him. Had that ever really stopped?

Really looking at this from all angles, taking his feelings out of the equation: there was no real reason for Bruce to find him interesting. He was brilliant, extremely educated and well versed in the world. He spent his life surrounded by beautiful and interesting people. He’d grown up surrounded by Gotham’s elite. Once he’d gotten past the mystery of Superman, past the intrigue of his abilities, Clark was just a farm boy from Smallville, Kansas. What did he really have to offer?

Hadn’t Bruce admitted that he gave this a chance because Alfred had persuaded him?

Even if this hadn’t been an elaborate leash for Clark, it stood to reason that someone else could make Bruce happier. Someone who didn’t blanch at Bruce spending more than fifty dollars on dinner. Someone who didn’t show up to high class events in a suit he hadn’t thought to tailor. Someone who knew about opera and fine wines and vacations in the Alps. Someone who understood Bruce.

Someone he could be proud to stand beside.

Arms wrapped around his shoulders as Lois pulled him into a hug. Swallowing thickly, he held her tightly, his chest tight as his eyes warmed. Lois stroked his back, murmuring softly into his ear. “It’s going to be alright. You’ll get through this.”

“My Ma,” he began.

Lois’ eyes were soft and kind. “She’ll be okay. She’ll understand.” She pulled back, petting his arm gently. Her confidence gave him strength. “This will blow over. They’ll find someone else to focus on before you know it.”

“It’s Cat Grant. She won’t let this go.” He covered his face as a thought occurred. “And Bruce.”

“You’re sure he hasn’t called?”

Frowning, Clark pulled out his phone. No missed calls or texts. No sign Bruce had even heard about it. “He sleeps in most mornings.”

Lois hummed thoughtfully. “Well, I’m sure he’d rather hear about it from you. I’m sure his publicist has already tried to reach him.”

Clark nodded, his stomach twisting nervously. “I can’t just leave.” It was weak; there was no way he could spend the rest of the day like this. He could already hear his coworkers whispering.

_“Bruce Wayne and Clark Kent? Call down to hell and ask them what the temperature is.”_

_“He’s so quiet. I’ve never seen him open his mouth that wide.”_

_“He must be good at that for Wayne to be interested.”_

_“You don’t believe it’s legit, right?”_

_“You think it’s fake?”_

_“No, no, the pictures are real. I think Wayne’s playing a game here.”_

_“Poor Clark.”_

Soft hands landed on his face as Lois looked to him concernedly. “Go home, Clark. No one will fault you.”

“Perry—”

“I’ll handle Perry.”

Clark held her gaze for a minute before nodded. He returned for his bag, paying no one any attention. He felt eyes on him and resolutely kept his eyes straight ahead.

He forced himself to walk calmly to the bus stop. When he arrived home, there were reported camped outside his building. Cursing, he brusquely walked around back, scanning the alley before he leapt onto the fire escape. He let himself in through the patio and slammed the door closed, almost hard enough to shatter the glass.

“That was risky.”

Freezing, Clark turned around slowly to find Bruce sitting on his couch. Dressed in a grey suit, a few strands of hair out of place. He looked tired and Clark could only imagine how long he’d been waiting for him.

“Bruce,” Clark began, stepping forward. “I guess you heard.”

“Heard. Saw.” He raised his chin, his voice steady. “It’s everywhere.”

“I know. I’m sorry –”

“That’s not why I’m here.” Clark paused, watching Bruce pull out a stack of photos. He stood, crossing calmly to the table between them where he tossed them over, his eyes hard. “What the hell is this?”

Clark frowned, reaching down to pick one of the up. Then his blood ran cold.

“Bruce,” he swallowed. “I can explain.”

“What the fuck are you doing with my son?” Bruce demanded, jabbing his finger at a photo of Clark sitting across from Dick at the diner.

“I met with him once. We just talked.”

“About what? What business do you have with my son?”

“Bruce –”

“How did you even find out about him?”

“I – there was a picture of him on your mantle.”

“So, you used that opportunity to dig into my private life and talk to my family?” He circled the table predatorily, his body coiled tight like a spring.

“You gave me permission.”

“To talk to Alfred! Not my children!”

“Children?” Clark asked, a hush falling over the room. He lowered his gaze, crossing his arms. “He told me not to tell you.”

Bruce paced a few steps, his face thunderous. He stopped abruptly, his eyes wide and almost panicked. His voice was grave, “Was this it?” Clark looked to him in question. “Was this why you’ve been so kind to me? So forgiving? So _nice_?”

Clark’s stomach twisted violently. “What?”

“This is it. I’ve been waiting. After what I did… what I almost did, I thought there was no way you’d ever –” he cut himself off, mouth twisting grimly. “This was it. You wanted to know my weaknesses.”

In the midst of this accusation, Clark thought he should’ve been hurt but instead, he felt unbelievably lost. As though the rug had been ripped out from under him. Hours ago, he’d been so happy, almost giddy, lying beneath Bruce in the safety of his bed and thinking about the dinner they would share that night.

Now, he was standing across from a man that was staring at him angrier than Clark had ever seen. As though he didn’t recognize the man looking back at him.

“You never trusted me at all,” he said quietly. Bruce’s face was stern but he remained silent. Clark curled his arms around his body, sick to his stomach. “You said you did but…what you’re accusing me of… you wouldn’t if you trusted me.” _And I wouldn’t if I trusted you._

“I did trust you!”

“No, you didn’t! Because if you did, you’d know better than to accuse me of this! If you did, you wouldn’t be having this reaction to me having one conversation with your son! Who you never bothered to tell me about!” He slammed his hand down, a hairline crack forming along the center of the table.

“This is my life!”

“And it’s my life, too!” Clark shouted, his voice rough. “My life that you tore through when you were digging around through every yearbook, every report card, every picture you could find of my parents. You started this because you wanted to know the best way to hurt me!”

“So, this is what? Payback? More research? You could kill me at any time!”

“No, I couldn’t because we’ve been doing _whatever the hell this is_ for the past six months and you still don’t know a damn thing about me!” Bruce veered back, eyes wide and stricken. “What I did – what I had to do to Zod was the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life.”

“But you did it,” Bruce said quietly. “You could do it again.”

“But I haven’t. And I won’t because I don’t think the way you do.”

“You’re right,” Bruce said, straightening and grabbing his coat. “I don’t think the way you do because I would never do this.”

He started towards the door and Clark felt something in him break. He followed him, shouting, “What is the worst thing that could happen if you just let people care about you? If you let me care about you?”

Bruce ignored him, reaching for the door handle. Clark slid in front of the door, his heart pounding. His words came out in a jumble. “I know about Jason.”

Bruce stopped, his breathing thin and reedy. “What?”

“Dick told me. He doesn’t know everything but he knows enough to know that you blamed yourself.” Bruce’s face hardened, his eyes focused on a spot far past the door, miles away from here. “He was worried about you, Bruce. He said you shut him out.”

Bruce swallowed, his voice gravelly. “Move, Clark. I won’t ask again.”

“What is so horrible about letting people know you?”

“Move!” he shouted, slamming his hand on the door and meeting Clark’s eyes, nostrils flaring.

Clark had seen him angry. He’d seen him frustrated and staring him down as though he the only thing keeping him from taking Clark down was that he hadn’t settled on the best method yet. He’d seen Bruce angry before but this… this was something else entirely.

Bruce was looking right through him. And he hated what he saw.

Clark tried again. “I didn’t track Dick down to hurt you. I just wanted to meet someone that knew you.”

“And what did you learn?” he demanded, his eyes flashing. “When you look at me, what do you see?”

“I see a man that will spend the rest of his life keeping everyone at arm’s-length. I know you think that’s best, but it’s not. You need people, Bruce.” Bruce finally managed to pull Clark away, sliding through the small opening the door slammed and Clark was alone.

“Just like I do.”

+

Martha Kent got off the plane at six in the morning.

Clark met her at the terminal. She’d booked her flight weeks ago, planning to stay with Clark and finally meet the man her son was so crazy about. When everything blew up, both in the news and in his life, Clark told her she didn’t have to come. She’d kept her flight anyway.

The moment she arrived, she took one look at Clark and pulled him into her arms. “Oh, baby.” Clark shuddered, holding her tight. With her scent in his nose, he felt like that same scared little boy he’d always been. She stroked his hair, whispering, “It’s going to be okay.”

Martha insisted they stop for groceries before they returned to his apartment. She made him a large breakfast and sat down across from him. “Tell me what happened.”

“It’s all over the news, Ma,” he replied, poking at his food. He had no appetite. He hadn’t since Bruce slammed the door in his face.

“Not that. That’s not the truth,” she said firmly. “I want you to tell me.”

Clark told her nearly everything. He left out the sex, Bruce’s admission of what he’d tried to do. When he got to the part about Luthor, her eyes widened worriedly. When he finished, she sighed and rested her chin in hand.

“Well, that is quite a mess. I won’t lie.” She bit her lip and went quiet for a moment. “His son died?”

“Looks that way. One of his enemies came after Jason. From the sounds of things, he didn’t make it. Bruce was never the same again.”

Martha’s mouth tightened into a thin line, her eyes softening. “Losing your family changes you. I can’t imagine what it would be like to lose a son. They’re supposed to bury you, not the other way around.” She crossed her arms, pulling on the sleeves of her sweater. “Sounds to me like he didn’t want you to know that part of him.”

“But it’s a part of him. I want to know everything.”

Martha looked to him, biting down a smile. “I understand that, sweetheart, but it doesn’t sound like he was ready to share that part of his past with you.”

“Because he doesn’t trust me.”

Martha reached out and took his hand. “I think he did. As much as he could. I’m sorry.” She squeezed his hand. “You think this might blow over?”

“I don’t know. You didn’t see his face.” He shook his head slowly, chest tightening. “I’ve never seen him like that before. It was like he didn’t even see me.”

“Maybe give him a few days.” She stood and came around the table to give him a hug. “Now, I’m here for a week. You gonna show me the city, or what?”

+

Despite his sleepless nights, Clark enjoyed having his mother here. It was nice to be around someone who both knew him and didn’t’ see him as a threat.

Martha understood how little he wanted to talk about what happened and kept up a steady stream of other things. She talked about life on the farm, their neighbors, whether she thought the storms would be kinder this year. He showed her the local haunts, his favorite coffee shop, Lois’ building. They walked past the Daily Planet. Oddly enough, in flannel shirts, glasses, and a baseball cap, he was able to roam quite freely. They left the apartment through the fire escape and were able to escape a lot of the press.

On his mother’s last day with him, Clark came back from checking his mail to find his mother missing. There was a note on the counter so Clark didn’t panic. Until he read the note.

_“Solve this mystery, Big Blue._

\- _L.L.”_

Clark’s blood ran cold, his eyes scanning the apartment for any sign of his mother. Finding none, Clark hurried into his suit and fled the apartment, shooting off the patio, no care given to who might have seen. He didn’t know what Lex was capable of.

Night was approaching, the sky awash in a sea of ember and blues. Clark flew as fast as he could, his mind racing through every worst-case scenario.

This was his fault. Bruce had waited; he had even asked. Clark had put it off; pushed it to the back of his mind. He’d known Lex was plotting something, some final act after he had failed at putting Bruce and Clark at each other’s throats.

_Little did he know, he could have simply waited. Clark had ruined them all on his own._

When Clark arrived on the roof of Lex Corp, Luthor was standing there alone. A helicopter sat on a helipad nearby, the passenger door open. His arms were crossed, gazing up at the sky as though he’d simply come up for a bit of stargazing.

Clark wanted to rip him apart.

“Luthor!” he shouted, coming down hard on the roof. Asphalt crackled beneath his feet, pieces scattered about like shattered glass. He marched forward, his blood boiling.

Luthor smiled at him. “Ah, Mr. Kent. Or should I say Superman? Glad to see you could finally join us. How rude of you to keep a lady waiting.”

“Where is she?” He shot forward like a bullet, taking hold of Lex’s blazer and shaking him violently. “Tell me!”

“Ah, ah, ah, you’re in no position to give orders.” He cocked his head to the side, studying Clark curiously. “I think you’ll find that I hold all the cards here.”

He tossed Lex back a few feet, pleased when he fell to the ground. “And why is that?”

“I know your secrets. All of them. I know where you came from, where you grew up, I even know what crib you slept in. I learned everything there was to know about you because, unlike all of these small minds around me, I knew what was coming.” He stalked closer, leaning in with a snarl. “The tide will turn. You will find your stopping point. And when you do, you will turn on all of these people, this _great world_ that you love so much.”

The words were painfully familiar and Clark felt torn asunder, his chest tightening.

“Why would you think that?”

“I know what you really are.” He moved closer, jutting finger in Clark’s face. “You may think you’re one of us, but you’re not. The great and powerful beings in this world are not the angels from on high, what we believe them to be. A great reckoning is upon us and I tried to prepare them for it. I tried to show them all the truth. We can’t rely on the ‘gods’ of this great earth.”

_Gods?_

“What are you talking about?”

“After Zod, I was surprised to see that, instead of casting you aside, they made you into a symbol. They uplifted you. Created statues and monuments in your image.”

“I didn’t ask for any of it.”

“And you got it all the same. New York lay in ruin and your face was on lunch boxes and city buses. People came to worship at your feet. They were all blinded to the truth.” He shook his head, looking to Clark, almost in commiseration. “I tried to push things along. I thought I’d found a suitable knight for my cause. And when he didn’t take action, I decided to research. Imagine my surprise when I found that, not only had you managed to gain his loyalty, the two of you were involved. Intimately.”

He smiled, his brows raised with intrigue. “Gotta say, I couldn’t have guessed that one.” His face darkened with mire. “The lengths you’ll go to for manipulation.”

Clark’s stomach twisted with shame, his face burning. “You’ve got it all wrong, Luthor.”

“You’re pretending to be one of us! But you’re not!” He hissed, glowering at Clark. “You can’t be!”

He paced a few steps. “What could I do? This was my creation. My magnum opus. Batman V. Superman, the gladiator match made in history. You foiled my plan so, I got… _creative_ . As you did,” he added, sliding his hands in his pockets. He gazed up at the sky, a hint of pride in his tone. “It wasn’t enough for you to uncover the man behind the mask. No, you had to go one step closer and uncover the man behind the persona. You had to _get to know him_. I could have stopped it then, but I didn’t. All the better for Act II.

“I sat on my photos of you at the diner and, when the time came, I sat on the pictures of you in the tailor shop. Quite an adventurous sort, your Bat.” Clark stiffened, his hands curling into fists. “When the time came, when it looked like Bats had begun to trust you, I released the photos. I sent one set to Cat Grant, although I must say, I find her business distasteful. She served her purpose and reported accordingly. I sent the second set straight to Bruce Wayne.

“I watched and I waited and, sure enough, he beat a hasty retreat. Leaving you all alone. So, what’s Act III, you ask?” He grinned, his teeth sharp and glinting in the lights below. “Someone once said that all love begins with our mothers. That’s where it started for you, isn’t it? She taught you our ways and made you believe you were one of us. But, you’re not.”

Clark’s hands clenched into fists but he forced himself to keep still, to calmly ask, “What have you done?”

“Can’t you see? I’m trying to make things easier for you.” He touched Clark’s face, a glimmer in his eye. Clark had seen that look before: hatred. “What’s a hero that only performs selfish acts? If you only serve this earth because of the people you love, what will you do when they’re gone?” Clark gripped his shirt, panic setting in. Luthor grinned. “When you’re alone, they’ll see. They’ll all see what a monster you really are.”

“You’re wrong,” Clark insisted, his voice broken.

“We shall see.” His smile widened, “Now, I suggest you let me go. Or I won’t tell you about Act III. And you want me to tell you about Act III.”

Clark let him go, though his hands nearly refused to cooperate. “Somewhere in this city, I won’t say where,” he sang, “your mother is sitting worried sick about you and the bombs surrounding her new home away from home. I wanted to hurry this thing along. Let’s skip to the end, shall we? I’ve hidden your mother away somewhere in the city. You have 2 minutes to find her. The address is on this notecard.”

He tossed it at Clark’s feet, appearing rather bored. Clark stared at him, his heart pounding. There was a catch. There had to be a catch. Right?

“What game are you playing at, Luthor?”

“The same one you’re playing.” His nose wrinkled, his eyes averted as he started towards the helipad. He rose a hand and Clark heard 2 gunshots. He stared at Luthor in confusion when two canisters at his feet exploded into giant plumes of vibrant green smoke. Clark had a few seconds before it invaded his lungs and he fell to his knees, struggling to breathe.

He gasped, crawling on his knees as he wheezed.

“You wanted to be one of us,” Luthor said. “Now, you are.”

He climbed into the chopper and took off, the blades cutting sharply through the night sky. Clark tried to move forward, his arms heavy and sluggish, his blood burning as the gas flooded his cells. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t see past the tears burning in his eyes. His heart beat was thready and rapid, his hands growing numb as he tried to hold himself up on the cool asphalt.

The notecard lay several feet away, flying further and further away in the wind. He couldn’t touch it, he couldn’t move.

But Martha needed him.

He let out a shout, forcing himself forward as he limbs fought to cooperate. Every breath was agony, his chest tight and pained. His arms were weak, shaking beneath his weight as he crawled on his hands and knees to the rooftop door. This was what Luthor wanted: to bring him down. Leave him weak and alone.

Clark was ashamed to say, Luthor might win this fight.

He couldn’t walk, he certainly couldn’t run. His time was running out and the kryptonite gas had not even begun to leave his system. Forcing himself forward, he pushed past his weakness, past the fire coursing through his blood, past the blood filling his lungs. Coughing, flecks of red spread across the pavement but he ignored it. Clawing, crawling, he finally reached the door and wrenched it open with a desperate grasp.

He fell to the tile floor instantly. But he was inside. He tried to stand, his legs shaky and uncooperative. But there was at least one flight of stairs before he could take the elevator, so he had to try. His arms fought him every step of the way, holding onto the railing as he lowered himself down. He made it a third of the way before his legs gave out and he collapsed, tumbling to the landing below.

His head slammed into the tile, vision swimming. He fought to get to his knees but the slightest motion caused his stomach to twist violently. His eyes burned, a sob escaping as he tried to push past it. Time was running out; his mother was stashed away in the city lost and scared. She needed him and he couldn’t even stand on his own two feet.

His head fell back on the tile, staring up at the dark ceiling. If he listened, very closely, beyond the sporadic thrumming of his heart, he could just hear the sounds of gusting wind. If he closed his eyes, he could see his father’s face staring back at him. That startling helplessness that left him powerless. Stuck in place, wishing – praying he could do something about it.

Luthor was right: Martha was the start of everything. But he was wrong about one thing: they weren’t playing the same game. Clark would never give up without a fight.

He rolled over onto his stomach, fighting the nervous quelling of his stomach. He pushed himself onto his knees and gripped the railing, forcing himself up just enough to get a better look at the sprinkler heads above. It took a few tries, his body so incredibly weak. But finally, he was able to get a burst of heat big enough to reach the sprinkler head.

The heads burst open, littering the halls in water. Raining down upon him, the water washed away some of the remaining residue, clearing Clark’s costume and flooding his senses. Not enough to heal him completely, but enough that he was able to stand. Enough that he could make it down the hall. The elevators were down, the fire alarm blaring in his ears.

Lucky for Clark, the service elevator was on a different system. He crawled inside and hit the button for the ground floor. As he rode down, his strength started to return. His mind cleared enough to try to focus on the card in hand. Sodden and blurring, Clark was able to make out a street but not the building number. He prayed his hearing would be back by the time it mattered.

When he reached the lobby, the floors were soaked in water. He was able to run, his flight not yet returning. He slipped and slid on the slick tile, focused on the glass doors and the busy street beyond them. When he burst through them in a flurry of glass, he was struck by a wall of sound. Horns blaring, a couple having a loud altercation on the street corner, police sirens racing through the streets. Clark fell back into the door frame, his head pounding as he tried to block them out. Tried to focus.

He knew Martha’s heartbeat. When he’d been younger, it had lulled him to sleep.

Now, he tries to pick it out amongst the several million in the city surrounding him. Past Perry’s and Jimmy’s. Past Lois’. Past the heartbeat in Gotham city he’d tried and failed to purge from memory.

There, just there – a steady drumming, a little elevated but still hers. There was still time.

Clark raced towards it, taking a running leap and bursting through the glass covering over a bus stop. Another leap, shooting through the solid concrete edge of an office building. Another leap, another, and another until he was able to stay afloat, racing forward towards the sound of the heartbeat. He arrived on the street on Luthor’s card, his heart in his throat, his body weak and struggling to keep awake.

The heartbeat grew louder, beating faster and faster. Clark shot forward, pushing past the bone deep ache, the weakness. He followed the sound to an empty warehouse at the end of the block. Pushed himself past his limits, past his rapid heartbeat, the sound of gusting wind in his ears. Past his panic, past his fear, past the part of him that knew he would never see Martha again.

The warehouse exploded into a burst of bright red flames and debris. Heat engulfed him, the fire all-encompassing and stunning him for a brief second. He raced forward, fighting the force of the blast and scanning the chaos for any sign of his mother. And any sign she might have survived this.

Another explosion and the building caved in.

Clark’s eyes burned with tears, soot and smoke. His fingers dug through the mess of charred wood and brick, his chest tight as his heart nearly beat out of his chest. Every breath ached, his fingers clumsy and slow but he forced himself to keep going. He refused to give up.

Even knowing it was hopeless.

He tore through the wreckage until his fingers nearly bled, the last of his energy leaving him. He fell in a slump, a sob escaping as he curled over the mess before him. He couldn’t stave them off, his throat tight as the smoke burned in his eyes. His fingers clenched in the dirt, too tired to lift his head.

There was a sound. Small and barely there.

A slight shuffling and then the sound of heavy boots.

“Clark?” A voice asked quietly.

Freezing, Clark’s heart beat faster and he opened his eyes. He stood on unsteady legs, turning carefully, afraid of what he’d see.

He didn’t have time to process before a slight weight barreled into him, thin arms wrapped tight around his waist. “I’m okay, baby. I’m okay.”

Martha.

Clark held her tight, his eyes clenched shut as he buried his nose in her hair. “I’m okay. I’m just fine.” She stroked his back, holding him close, murmuring reassurances. “Your friend got me out.”

_Friend?_

His eyes opened dazedly, taking in the man standing awkwardly before him. Batman watched them quietly, an indecipherable look in his eye. Clark didn’t know what to say, all his words stuck in his throat.

Finally, he settled on a heartfelt, “Thank you.” Bruce nodded, stepping back. “Thank you so much.”

Bruce’s eyes widened, a sheen to them before he averted them sharply. He stepped further back, pulling out his grappling hook. “Wait!” Bruce stopped, turning around. He didn’t lift his head. “Thank you, Bruce. You don’t know how much this means to me.”

Bruce raised his head, his eyes soft. His jaw tightened, his eyes cutting to Martha before returning to Clark. His words were gruff, “I think I do.”

Then he shot off his hook, disappearing into the night.

Clark watched silently. Martha bumped into his side, a pensive look on her face. “That wasn’t how I wanted to meet him.” Clark laughed, kissing the top of her head. “But he’ll do.”

Clark shook his head, wrapping his arm around her shoulders. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

“I told you, don’t worry about me.” She touched his face, scanning him briefly. “You’re okay?”

“Me?”

“Yes, you.” She pet his cheek. “You’re my son. A mother never stops worrying about her children.”

She pulled him down to kiss his forehead. His eyes closed as he sighed in relief.

The flames burned on around them.

+

Wayne Manor painted a sad picture in daylight.

A sprawling mansion on the edge of town with gargoyles with endless and shadowy woods rising up behind it. It was a wonder anyone had ever hosted parties here.

Clark stood on the steps outside, a pie in hand. Taking a few deep breaths, he steeled himself and tried to work up the courage to knock on the door. The sound echoed, on and on through a house much too big for two.

Clark waited, his heart in his throat.

Alfred came to the door. Upon finding Clark, he almost smiled. It warmed Clark instantly. “Mr. Kent. How nice to see you again.”

“You, too,” Clark said with a grin.

“I figured Bruce had run you off.”

Clark nodded, running a hand over his head. “He did. I’m here to say thank you. And apologize.” He held up the pie sheepishly. “My mother baked a pie.”

Alfred’s almost smile widened. “How thoughtful of her. Well, do come in.” He stepped back, opening the door wider. “If Bruce doesn’t find you welcome here, I do.”

Clark followed Alfred through the dark halls, their steps echoing. The quiet was near deafening. “Is he here?”

“He’s down in the cave.”

Clark bit his lip, stopping in the foyer. “How is he?”

Alfred’s chin rose, his eyes guarded. “He’s –” he cut himself off, clearing his throat. “He’s brooding. He won’t admit it, but he misses you.”

Clark followed him down the hall. They passed the room with the Wayne family portrait. Peeking inside, Clark noticed there weren’t any additions to the mantle. He wasn’t sure whether that was a good sign, or a sign Bruce hadn’t wanted to remember him.

They approached the entrance to the cave and Clark politely looked away while Alfred turned the hands of the antique clock, revealing a door. He descended the steps, Clark following closely behind. He felt that familiar chill, the sense he was leaving the sunlight far, far behind.

Down below, Bruce was sitting at the computer console, a stern frown on his face as he studied the many screens before him. How he focused, Clark would never know. By the looks of things, he hadn’t slept in several hours. Bags under his eyes, coffee mugs covering the desk, his three-piece suit wrinkled as he sat. Still, to Clark, he was beautiful.

Alfred stopped at the bottom step, clearing his throat. Bruce looked up, finding Clark and stiffening.

“Mr. Kent is here to see you.” He turned, taking the pie from Clark and starting up the stairs. As he reached the top, he called out, “Do let yourself be happy, Mr. Wayne.”

Bruce’s face darkened as he returned to the computer. Clark stuck his hands in his pockets, stepping forward slowly. His nerves were a frazzled mess, his stomach in knots. He’d rehearsed his speech on the way over but, now that he had Bruce in front of him, everything seemed inadequate. Every apology stale and ripe with clichés. Nothing seemed good enough.

“Kent,” Bruce greeted. It stung. “What are you doing here?”

He clasped his hands together, resting his chin on them as he studied the screens before him. Clark forced himself forward. “I wanted to thank you.”

“You already did.”

“No, not…” he took a deep breath, moving in closer. He caught the scent of Bruce’s cologne and, just like that, the words came easy, his chest tightening painfully. “Not just for saving my mother but, for the past two months of my life.” Bruce looked to him, his brow furrowed. Clark offered a small smile. “It didn’t end well but, before that, I was happy. The happiest I’d ever been.”

Bruce studied him for a while, his breathing steady. Finally, he averted his gaze. “You’re welcome,” he replied, voice rough. Clark swallowed, praying he would say more. Then, “I’m glad your mother is okay.”

“Thanks to you.”

Bruce looked to him, his eyes guarded. “Lex used me.”

“You knew that. You predicted that a while back, remember?” Clark asked, pride inflecting his voice.

“He sent me those pictures of you and Dick,” Clark nodded. “He knew they’d make me angry.”

“I should have known that. I’m sorry.”

Bruce’s face twisted, his hands clenched into fists on the console. He studied them silently, his brow furrowed. Finally, “Help me understand this, Clark.”

Clark tried but the words stuck in his throat. He gestured helplessly. “I just wanted to know you,” he explained meekly. “That’s it. Not for an article. Not to hurt you. No ulterior motive.” He gave a weak smile, “Just me.”

Bruce looked to him, his eyes wide and, if Clark didn’t know any better, almost fearful. He turned, his shoulders slumped as he gazed up at Clark. His hair was a mess, a sign he’d been frustrated enough to pull on it while he worked. It was a habit Clark hadn’t seen often. He used to stand behind Bruce’s chair and smooth it down, the repetitive motion usually enough to send Bruce upstairs to bed, exhausted. Now, Clark’s fingers twitch, eager to touch.

He keeps his hands in his pockets.

“The idea of you talking to Dick about…” He cut himself off abruptly, his eyes clenching shut. “It’s like having your biggest failure laid out for everyone to see.”

His head turned and Clark followed his line of sight. There, in the corner of the cave, a glass case housing a suit of armor of some sort. A message spray painted across it: _Hahahahahaha, the jokes on you._

Stomach twisting, Clark moved in, helpless to reach for Bruce’s shoulder. It was tentative, slow enough to offer warning. When Bruce didn’t pull away, Clark felt something in him calm. “That’s not how Dick sees it.” Bruce looked to him, his face deceptively blank. “He worries about you.”

“He shouldn’t. It’s better this way.”

His face was drawn, his voice firm, so certain that he was right and Clark couldn’t help himself. He wrapped his arms around Bruce and pulled him into a hug. Stiffening, Bruce’s breathing grew heavier by the minute. Finally, he wrapped an arm around Clark, his face pressed to his neck. Warm breath misted across his skin as Bruce’s fingers gripped his shirt, holding on painfully tight. Clark held him for as long as he allowed himself, breathing in Bruce’s scent and praying Bruce wouldn’t pull away anytime soon.

“Pushing people away doesn’t make them care less about you.” He pulled back, cupping Bruce’s face gently. “It didn’t stop me from pursuing this, despite the fact that Alfred and Lois and my mother all thought I was out of my mind.” The corner of Bruce’s mouth quirked, though his eyes still held that haunted shade. “Pushing me away didn’t make me stop caring about you.” He took a deep breath, tracing his thumb over his lip. “It didn’t stop me from falling in love with you.”

Bruce’s breath caught, his eyes widening. When he spoke, he almost sounded lost. “The thought of you knowing me like that terrifies me.” Clark stepped in closer, tipping Bruce’s head back. Brown eyes free and clear, startlingly bright and honest for the first time since they’d known each other. “I think a part of me wanted you to.”

Clark warmed, his thumb tracing over Bruce’s lip again. Bruce’s eyes fell shut briefly, opening almost dazedly. Clark found himself leaning in before he realized, their lips inches apart when Bruce whispered, “It was so easy for Lex to use this against us.”

“I know. But you have to know, I will never let anything happen to you.”

“It’s not me I’m worried about.” His eyes opened, sharp and focused.

“I will never let anything happen to your family.”

Bruce’s temple pulsed, his mouth a thin line as he studied Clark silently. His voice wavered, “I can’t do this again.”

“What do you mean?” Clark asked softly. 

“If I lose you, there’s no coming back from that.”

Stomach twisting, Clark pulled him into a soft kiss. “You won’t,” he whispered.

Bruce shook his head. “He knows you. Not like I do,” Bruce supplied. “He knows your weaknesses better that I do. If I hadn’t bugged your suit, I might not have gotten there in time.”

Clark’s eyes widened in surprise. “You bugged my suit?”

Bruce swallowed, nodding once. “In the beginning, to make sure no one else got hurt. Then after…” it went unsaid. He licked his lips, his voice jagged. “I can’t lose you.”

“You won’t,” Clark insisted. “You could never lose me. I’m stubborn that way. I’m alone, Bruce. There will never be anyone else like me. So, I hold onto the people I love and never let them go. Not without a fight.”

Bruce studied him guardedly, his eyes glimmering in the low light. Finally, he took hold of Clark’s wrist and held onto it. Heart pounding, Clark leaned in slowly, tracing his thumb over Bruce’s lip. It was slow and tender, a simple press of the lips. The softest kiss they’d ever shared. Clark’s lips parted, a shudder coursing through his body as Bruce chased his lips.

His breath quickened, a forceful grip on his shirt as Bruce held him close, the taste of salt on his tongue. Clark’s words lost in the desperate clash of their mouths. Strong fingers twined in his hair, guiding him as he lost himself in the slide. He embraced it, welcoming Bruce into his arms as a strong arm wrapped around his waist. He’d missed this; _God, how he’d missed this._

A sharp bite to his lip drew a gasp and they pulled apart, Bruce’s eyes dark and intent. Shivering, Clark licked his lips. “Okay,” Bruce said quietly.

“Okay?”

Bruce nodded, stroking his back and burying his face in Clark’s stomach. A slow smile spread across Clark’s face as he took Bruce in, hugging him close. They sat there for a little while, the quiet sounds of fluttering wings in the distance, Alfred puttering around upstairs, the quiet hiss of the servers. Clark breathed in the scent of Bruce’s skin and his cologne.

Finally, Bruce pulled back, looking to Clark concernedly.

His mouth twisted as he took Clark’s hand and pulled him closer to the computers, almost hesitant. “About what you said, there’s something you should see.

He stood and let Clark have his chair. Leaning over, he entered in a few keys and stepped back. “Lex was working on something else down in his labs. When the decryption came through, I found this.”

An image appeared on screen. One Clark recognized all too well.

Clark Kent at age 3. But he didn’t recognize the photo. In the corner of the image, a file note:

_Experiment 13._

Bruce’s hands came down heavily on his shoulders, his words firm and certain. “You’re not alone, Clark.”

**Author's Note:**

> Come visit me on [tumblr!](http://capn-shellhead.tumblr.com)


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